Warm but not friendly is how I remember this place. Warm as in weather, unfriendly as in people. But then again, the last time I was here I probably spewed out black vibes enough to scare the most well meaning folk. This time will probably be a lot different. The problem with me in new places is that I hate being a “tourist”. I’ve rarely been one lately even though I travel so much. I’ve tended to live in places rather than visit them and in that sense I feel like I’ve had a better understanding of a city/country/people than an ordinary tourist. This repulsion I have for touristy activities must be stopped because it’s really very counter productive. I mean I have no interest in going out and doing stuff (i.e. seeing Singapore) and instead I’m sitting here typing. Gah. I suck, no? Well, in my defense, I’m ultra tired this morning on a/c of not getting enough sleep, flying four hours and then not sleeping well again. All I want to do today is go down to the pool and I told my dad we could do the night safari thing tonight. He wanted to hire bikes and ride all around the beach today but my aching calves aren’t up for it. Perhaps tomorrow.

Now that I am here, I’m really unsure how to broach (or is it breach?) the topic of Chef with my Dad. Chef;s been calling me for long hours and I’m hoping my Dad kinda gets the idea, you know? But the thing is my father has lately been in his own bubble wrap of a world. I mean when he came to pick me up at the airport, he was on the phone the WHOLE time. He finally said cut the call and said hi to me when we pulled up outside the apartment! But I’ve been subtly hinting that Chef and I are really close and that I might go back to the States in about a year or so. I’m not sure what he thinks of it or perhaps the idea of me with a man SO much older is just something his brain doesn’t compute? Whatever. I’ve decided that this is not a job for me. This is a job for…. Mommy! Ha ha. Yep. I’m passing the buck.

My grandmother is here too and for ONCE in my life she hasn’t looked at me in dismay and said, “Look at you. How THIN you’ve become.” Which of course is completely fatal for me. Despite that, she has been trying to feed me all kinds of food and being immediately offended at my refusal to stuff my not-so-flat-anymore belly with more food. Gah. I blame my jelly belly on those doctors in Canada who took my appendix out. All those years of building muscle GONE in some 5 minutes of laproscopy. I hate doctors. I may as well have a baby now coz that damn thing will pretty much do the same thing.

In other news, I dropped my stupid Motorazor into a glass of ice water the night before the last and killed it. That shitty phone was asking to be murdered, if you want to know the truth. WHoever the fuck designed the software for the motorola phones should be banned. It is the slowest and most braindead phone software I have ever had the displeasure to use. So now my daddy needs to buy me a brand new phone which is very exciting for me. It was either a phone or a Nintendo DS and since I killed the motorazr – it’s gonna be a phone.

Charles de Gaulle wasn’t too bad. The French were actually awesome to me. As I was going through customs in Paris, the black Customs Man looks at me and smiles beautifully. He asks me for my passport, reads my name out and tells me I’m absolutely beautiful! It was nice of him to say that since I thought I looked and smelled like hell given that I’d already spent 20 odd hours travelling. Merci, Customs Man, merci!

I bought two bottles of red wine at the airport. One Bourdeaux and one Syrah. Both 2006 and the cheapest available. I gave the Syrah to my aunt and uncle here but it’s completely wasted on them. Nobody I know in India has a taste for wine. THe first thing my uncle asked me about the wine was if it was sweet. My heart sank. I popped the bottle yesterday because Dark Knight (my cousin) and his father came over. Neither of them liked it at all. His father wanted beer. My aunt wouldn’t drink it because she “doesn’t like wine.” Later that night, I drank about half the Bordeaux by myself in bed while reading ‘Hunted’.

Hunted is a childern’s fiction novel about a world where infertility is the norm. So much so that real kids are commodities that are rented, sold and bought. It’s about a little kid called Tristan (I think) and his Minder Deek. Deek rents Tristan out to people for an hour or more so they can, for a while, know what it feels like to have a child. It’s an interesting concept and the writing is engaging enough. I can’t wait to finish it tonight!

Chef and I have been talking regularly on the phone. I told my mother about him and we talked about the whole age difference thing. In the end she said as long as I’m happy, no one is going to stand in my way. That’s good to hear. She did tell me that my aunt in Bombay and my grandmother went to an astrologer earlier this year to look at my horoscope. They called my mother and told her that according to my horoscope I must only marry the man my family chooses for me because if I choose my own husband, the marriage is doomed to fail. My mum was pissed and she told my dad and my dad in turn yelled at my grandmother for being so ridiculous.

I don’t actually understand how in the HELL they would sell me to a proper Tam-Bram Iyer family. I mean I have tattoos, piercings; I smoke and drink; I’m not a virgin and I can’t cook or sing and speak very bad broken Tamil. I’m not exactly a ‘catch’. That and given my sketchy history of drug abuse, what self respecting Tamil boy would want me? I’m curious.

In other news: I will be gainfully employed from June 1. See other blog for scattered details.

I’m leaving tomorrow morning. It’s going to be a pretty grueling flight. I hate flying. Not because I’m scared but because it’s exhausting. Here’s my flight schd:

Hartford to New York, where I’m in transit for FOUR hours.

NYC to Paris and a five hour transit. I hate Paris Airport, btw. The French are incredibly snobbish. I came to the States via France and I swear every time I asked airport personnel for directions in English, they answered in very abrupt French. When I informed the smart asses that I do not, in fact, speak French, they’ve wave me in the direction I was to go with a sense of exasperation.

Finally, Paris to Bangalore- a 9 hour plane ride.

I hate flying. How come we haven’t come up with an easier method to transcend space and time physically? Whatever happened to, ‘Beam me up, Scottie’? What are all our scientists doing?

Chef and I went shopping yesterday. He wanted to buy me shoes. Now the thing is, I’ve never been keen on shoe shopping. In that respect, I wasn’t the typical girl going ga-ga over footwear. I’ve always had the basics:

A pair of running shoes that masquerade as warm shoes or shoes for rainy times.
A pair of open toes slippers OR sandals.
A pair of heels (to be worn only at weddings)

When I met Chef, I was living the three-shoe lifestyle. Less actually, because a year ago I had two pairs: running shoes and a pair of worn out open toe Zara flats. Chef was stunned, to say the least, and one of the first things he did upon my arrival here in the States was to go out and buy me FOUR pairs of shoes. In ONE day. It was great.

The Chef is a man of immaculate taste. He likes fine wines, good food and fancy clothes (on me, ie. HE walks around in torn, burned white tee shirt he wears to work-ah, but it is a Calvin Klein tee!) He has great sense of aesthetics and can pick out pretty jewellery and clothes for me. Which is a good thing because I spent a lot of time rebelling against these ‘girly’ things. I thought I was all ‘dark’ and ‘goth’ and ‘brooding’ and ‘bad ass’. When I told Chef this, he burst out laughing and opened my lingerie drawer to say, “Honey, you’re as girly as a girl can get. All you’ve got here are pink panties with flowers on them.” He’s also a very perceptive man. I’m glad he has good taste because I need help and now, under his guidance, I’m proud to say I kinda like shoe shopping.

So anyway, yesterday he told me that four pairs of shoes aren’t enough for a young girl. Three, to be exact, because I’m leaving the snow boots behind. We went and got me a pair of pretty pink open toe flats and a pair of bright green Crocs. Yes, yes, I know. The world hates Crocs but they’re so bright! Ha ha. I’m only going to wear them in the house anyway.

Now I have a grand total of seven shoes and I promised Chef I wouldn’t wear the pink shoes ALL the time and wear them out like I did the Zaras. We settled on twice a week. At all other times, the shoes being abused will be my skull and cross bones keds.

Here’s to hoping I survive the long flight home.