I won't post the whole letter up but basically, she was saying that she enjoyed reading (well, thanks for reading). She asked me where I work, and wondered why I have never once mentioned about my work and anything about my love life.

Well well well.

Actually that came as a surprise. I read back all my old entries. She's right. Almost everything I wrote about anything near to love is what happened to people around me, what I observed, what I think it should be. Never once about...Me.

Dear reader,

The reason I never once thought of writing about it, is....for obvious reasons. One: It's nothing amazing. Two: I can't write about it because I don't want The Man to know what I'm thinking at that time heh? Anyway, I'm not related to anyone right now and I guess none of my past lovers, crushes, boyfriend read me anymore. So i thought maybe it's not a bad idea and no harm writing about it. I don't mind sharing, but I hope there's no judgment whatsoever after you read it.

But,

Do you really want to know about The Man?

The Man who had filled me up, had given me some of the best days of my life, had brought me up sky high with rainbows, butterflies and sweet nothings. The Man who had also slammed me down so hard, who had hurt me incessantly, absent-mindedly.

Do you really want to know all that?

I probably wouldn't want to bore everyone with the details. So maybe I'll just write them in short stories from the beginning till the very end in a separate page. See the "Men A-Z" at the top? =)

At night, we go to big AHOPE for program. It is my turn to tell a story, so I tell the story of Rumplestiltskin. Before I start, Abebe tells the kids that they will vote on who has told the best story: me, T or M, and when he says it, I give the kids menacing eyes and point to myself, to get my message across. Some of them nod seriously, and others laugh and shake their heads. I vow to punish them later for this audacity.

I tell the story, which some of the kids already know. Abebe, who is translating the story, cannot say Rumplestiltskin for the life of him, which cracks up all the ferenge, who have been teased for our misprounounciations of Amharic words. I mean, really. How hard is it to say Rumplestiltskin?

My story is obviously the greatest, and I even make one of the bigger girls jump when I get to Rumplestiltskin’s fit of rage. I ask Abebe about the voting for days to follow, and even though he giggles when I tell him that I will win because my story was awesome, he never has the kids vote. This is because my story was clearly the best, and he doesn’t want to publicly embarrass T and M.

After I finish my telling of the greatest story ever told, the kids have dinner. At the beginning of our stay in Addis, M told us that the highest compliment you can get from Ethiopians is to be hand fed by them, because it means they really love you. The little kids have stuck food in my mouth countless times, but never the older ones. One of the older girls, whom I don’t know very well, calls me over and pops a piece of bread and honey into my mouth. I tell her thank you, and as I am still chewing the bread, another girl calls me over to feed me.

In no time at all, T and M and I are running back and forth around the room, so that all the kids can feed us. I am touched beyond words. Here I am, an American in a poverty-stricken country, being hand fed by orphans. I try not to think about it too much, or else I will surely burst into tears and frighten them all away. Instead, I open wide, chomp and swallow, over and over, thinking about how I have never felt so loved in my whole life.

The kids are running riot around the yard and I am sitting on the ground with one of them when a man comes over. He is the doctor and he comes to AHOPE occasionally to check on the children. He is very charming in the quiet Ethiopian way, and like all Ethiopians with an email address, he wants to write to me. He tells me that Baby S, the tiny girl who just came back to the compound from the hospital, is going back. She has a chest infection and needs to be more closely monitored. I nod, saddened that she is leaving, because it was nice having her around. She is a tiny thing, with spindly arms and legs, so little that she has to eat the protein peanut paste and spends her days sitting on the couch, barely moving. I am not surprised that she is still sick.

Then we go over to Big AHOPE, where we spend four hours. I take picture after picture of the kids, and they want to use the camera. I tell them each, “ant, beeeeetcha!,” thinking I am telling them, "only one!" I am impressed with my tremendous Amharic abilities, because they all nod, snatch the camera away, and bring it right back. It is only later that I realize I was telling them, "ONE YELLOW!" and they probably all think I am both bossy and stupid.

It is a nice afternoon, as usual, and the boys all crash around playing basketball, and the girls all braid my hair and play the rock-jacks game. It’s easy to be at Big AHOPE, because the kids just want to be with us, and were we not hungry and tired, we would stay all day--or maybe, forever.

When we get back to the house, it’s time for a coffee ceremony. We haven’t had any since B went home, and I am kind of excited. Genet spreads the flowers all over and gets the coffee set up, and we wait for M’s friend Tommy to arrive. We are all chowing down on popcorn when he gets there. T is pleased because he’s brought kolo, which is an Ethiopian grain that pretty much everyone eats all the time. I am pleased because he is fascinating. I figured he would be in his mid-20s, but he’s in his late 30s, and is an Eritrean refugee. He tells us about how he fled Eritrea through Sudan, how he was in jail for months, and how he came to Ethiopia. He talks nonchalantly, as if everyone is a refugee and has spent months in a jail simply because their home country was unlivable. He answers all my 4598674958673 questions, thoughtfully chewing on kolo, and I think I like Tommy as much as I disliked Jamal.

Lo show va in onda su MTV il martedì, mercoledì e giovedì alle 22:30.
Ecco qui il traier, sono sicuro che una volta visto molti di voi ragazzi vorrebbero trovarsi al suo posto.

Forse ci darò un occhiata un giorno facendo zapping, questo Domenico mi ricorda un po' Renato del Grande Fratello ungherese.

It turns out that we end up sitting in the waiting room anyway, before they can take us. Thank goodness for African time. The massage is very good, except that I tell the masseuse to use hard pressure and when she rubs the thighs, I think they might fall off. Then, she leaves the room and closes the door. Right, I think, it's over. And so I am standing there, clothed only from the waist down, when she comes back in. Oh, no no no! she cries. She makes me take off my pants and she rubs me down with a warm towel to get the oil off, and no, it is not at all weird or humiliating, thank you. Please know that M did the exact same thing, so she is at least as idiotic as I am.

We go back across town, soaked in oil, to go to little AHOPE, where the people from Kate's orphanage (including Amanda and Matt) are visiting. No one at AHOPE knows they're coming, so when they arrive, all the kids are napping. We all stand around awkwardly as M gives them a tour and the nice couple from Iowa gives me the package they brought from my mother, and then we all decide to go to big AHOPE. Amanda and Matt haven't been before, so we are excited to introduce them to the big kids. The other couples take a quick tour with M, and then head on their way, but Matt and Amanda spend hours there with us, playing the rock-jacks game and crashing around on the soccer/basketball field.

On the way home, a little boy named Ermias runs up to us to hold our hands. His mother laughs and waves goodbye to him, and he walks along with his sticky hands in ours. We decide to buy him a Mirinda, since we are buying some for ourselves, and when M hands it to him, he has a look of pure bliss on his little face. Two other little kids immediately appear, so we buy some for them, too, and as we walk up the road to our house, they clutch a bottle in one hand and wave madly in the other, crying goodbye! goodbye!

One night, a petty argument turned into a full blown nasty fight. Ending with the Boyfriend asking the Girlfriend to pack her bags and leave the room and that she can "go wherever she wants" and "do whatever she likes". The Boyfriend, out of rage, complained about having to spend the amount of money on an "unappreciative useless piece of crap". Armed with little cash and no contacts in the foreign land in the middle of the night, the Girlfriend had to ask the hotel concierge to book her a hostel room which costs less than a beggar's day of meal.

The next day, the Girlfriend had no choice but to call the Boyfriend with a "is there anything we can do". They ended up flying back to the country with the Boyfriend apologizing later and the Girlfriend forgiving and now they're back together.

No. That did not happen to me. But i have my fair share of experience with man with ego as huge as Mt Everest. I put, men who ask their woman to leave, and men who walked away themselves leaving their woman in the middle of nowhere, at the same level. I admit i am no saint. I do get pissed off with things, then to throw tantrums like a biatch. But getting slapped is no fun, whether it is an unintentional act of anger or merely as a joke. My road is paved with so many sorry-s that it doesn't even sound like a word anymore. Normal responses from outsiders are "if i were u i would have packed my bags and leave" "he's not worth it. leave" "why are you staying with guys like that. nobody would hit their gf" "he's an asshole. u should know better" "if he can slap u now i cannot imagine what he'd do to you later" "leave" "break up"

Have you tried forgiving someone who had done the unthinkable after many displays of regrets or sorries, only to find out he is capable of doing something even more loathsome. And then he came back begging for forgiveness. Are you still able to forgive this person? I reckon in every relationship there's a chance where both parties could take a deep breath, sit down and figure things out. Eliminating all foul languages, shoutings, harsh piercing words and storming away. Because we need to know that things can definitely be forgiven, but are never forgotten. You would hope angry words used during the arguments could be erased once you made up, but that is never the case no matter how much you regretted blurting them out and would give anything to take them back. In any situation though, there's no excuse for lifting your finger to your woman, ever. If that's allowed, what's next?

what's next would be pack the bags and leave.

In the afternoon, we have our first class with the kindergarteners, and it runs the gamut between excitement and complete pandemonium. A new child has arrived, and he is devastated to the point that his cries stop the game right in the middle. Everyone in the room turns and stares at him, and some of the kids crawl over to his chair, where one of them tries to kiss him to make it better. After a while, he calms down and sits quietly, holding a picture of a lion drawn on construction paper. Afterwards, we walk over to the older kids compound, where four boys try to braid my hair at once as we play two truths and a lie. I tell Sneaky 2 that I have five husbands, and he crosses himself dramatically, and then tells me he has seven wives. They tell me they have hundreds of parents, dozens of wives and children, and that they were born in America.

We move inside when it starts to rain, and T and I play thumb wars with the boys and call them names. We have just learned the word for crazy, and I tell Smiley that he is Crazy 1. He laughs and laughs with his glorious toothy smile, telling me I am Crazy 1, and then sits down to spaghetti. He calls my name repeatedly and when I look over, he holds up a giant spoonful of pasta and gives me a thumbs up, looking as though he should be in some kind of cheesy Mentos commercial.

After dinner, T tells the story of the Emperors New Clothes, and before he does, Abebe warns him to speak slowly so that he can translate. M and I laugh as T enunciates better than he ever has in his life, and as he speaks, the Braider plaits my hair into eight tiny braids. I try to keep my head still as I tickle the boys backs and they try to tickle my arms in response. I wonder how much money I would need to make to adopt 80 Ethiopian children.

For the story, M tells The Wreck of the Zephyr. The kids are riveted, except for one. I sit next to a little girl who looks like my cousin Pip, and I tickle her back as M talks. I am two people away from M, and on her other side is the girl who told me I am not konjo. The Honest Girl leans behind M and raises her eyebrows at me in the way that Ethiopians do, as a greeting. Unlike the people on the street, Honest Girl raises them repeatedly, over and over, and I try not to fall off my chair laughing. I look across the room, and T shoots me a look like the ones I used to get in high school for talking too much. Theres nothing I can do, though, because every time I look at M, Honest Girl is behind her, eyebrows twitching.

For Bs going away, there are songs and the kids present her with a card. B gives the kids a speech about how much the kids mean to her, and how sad she is to be leaving. M tells B how much she will miss her, and I silently agree. T always says that B is so young and energetic, and I wonder what things will be like without her exuberance. I can tell the kids are wondering too.

Since B is leaving, we host a thank you lunch at the house for the people in the office. Genet spends most of the morning cooking shiro and a couple of other stews, and we all end up eating like pigs. Then, we have a coffee ceremony and we all sit in the sunshine, drinking the thick black coffee.

In the afternoon, we go to big AHOPE, where we watch M and B teach their conversational English class. They are teaching above and below. The kids sit on tables, or lie on the floor, and B spends most of the class lying on the floor with them, to demonstrate being below the table. At the end of class, I am talking to two of the boys when one of them grabs my cafeteria lady arm flab and says, wolfrum. The kid behind him, ever the peacemaker, says No, strong. Sorry, peacemaker. Its wolfrum.

For dinner, the adoptive father comes over with his daughter. They have obviously bonded and the father is ready to get home. He is waiting for approval from the US Embassy in Kenya, where their papers have been sent, but because of Easter, the office has been closed. It is the first time he has eaten Ethiopian food in Addis, and he watches in wonder as his little girl puts it away. Unsurprisingly, we all chow down as well, shoving shiro in our mouths in our best attempt to achieve the wolfrum Ethiopian baby boy belly.

When we get back to the house, Genet has prepared another buna ceremony, so we all sit on the porch in the late afternn sunshine, with Genet and Iope teaching us new Amharic words. We drink endless cups of coffee and crack up at our mispronounciations and Genets explanation of how one of our guards has a baby: Mifta touch woman...baby. After the coffee, I make M cut my hair, because I cant stand the snarls anymore, and at the end, there are piles of hair on the ground.

Since were going out for dinner, Genet gets all dolled up in a sparkly red dress, and she looks hot. M and I both do our best, and Genet tells me l look good with my new haircut and that I should wear my hair down more often, because it is more better. Were going out for dinner at Habesha Restaurant, a local place that has dancing. We order a giant plate of food, with injera and fasting food and shiro and some kind of lamb wat that Genet picks. I literally cant eat fast enough.

And then the dancing begins. It is hands down, the greatest thing I have ever seen. Two men and two women shake and snap their bodies in ways I never knew possible. I could take dance lessons for the rest of my life and never be able to dance like this. For hours, we are all completely riveted, until we finally leave the restaurant at eleven, crammed into a taxi that takes the long way home, down all kinds of bumpy unpaved roads.

On Easter morning, we wake up early to go to the Orthodox church, which is supposed to be the biggest Orthodox church in all of Africa. M is feeling sick, so B, T and Genet and I take the two taxis across town to get there. Before we go to the church, we stop to watch a run for womens rights, with thousands of pink-clad women running and walking down the street, with the occasional boy sprinting alongside.

The church is enormous, with a brightly-colored dome with murals in the center. on our way in, Genet stops to kiss the ground numerous times, and when we get inside, there is a woman kneeling with a small boy lying on the ground in front of the altar. B, Genet and I accidentally sit on the mens side, until a man appears and asks us to switch to the other pews. All the women in the church are wearing head scarves, except for me and B, and we watch as a devastated woman cries and rants in sorrow in the front of the church, completely inconsolable.

On the taxi home, a man tries to get in the front seat with T and B. He climbs into the back with us, and apologizes to me. I tell him no problem in Amharic, and he congratulates me on my Amharic skills, and is impressed when I tell him I have been in Ethiopia only a week. We talk about how he lives in San Diego, how the American Embassy is a nightmare, and how I should beware in Ethiopia. Most of the time, Im not sure exactly what point hes making, but I am glad that he recognizes that I am an Amharic Master.

The other kids are good as well; I sit with one of the little girls in my lap and bounce her around as she cries with laughter. She looks like our friend Emily, and her laughter is a shiny thing. Meanwhile, another little boy plays hand games with T, happy to have some man time.

I finally get a little boy who looks like my cousin Charlie (but with molluscum) to let me hold him, which he does with a smile, and Ms friend Happiness has cheered up enough to blow me kisses when we leave. It is a good day.

We go to the Melting Pot for the African buffet, and the restaurant is packed with people. A table full of African women in brightly colored dresses sits behind us, and suddenly one starts to bash her glass with her fork, calling for the waitress. When the waitress doesnt immediately sprint over, the woman begins to yell WE NEED THE BILL! We watch her, horrified, but secretly pleased that she isnt American.

At night, we get in a series of taxis to go to Charlene and Owens house in the suburbs. Charlene and Owen are missionaries from the West Coast with an Ethiopian son. They have come to Addis for a few years to work at AHOPE, and Charlene teaches the older kids English. On the bus, I am sitting on the back wheel, and I whisper to M that my $15 Malaysian jeans are a little low-cut and that Im worried I am flashing the back row of the bus. As if to confirm my fear, the woman behind me suddenly pulls down my shirt and pats my back. Yup, Im a creepy ferenge flasher.

Owen and Charlenes house is out in the suburbs, where the city is spreading rapidly. There is construction everywhere, and in a few years, the neighborhood will look entirely different. We have dinner with them and their sons family—his beautiful wife and adorable daughter, who is a studious-looking little thing with wire-rimmed glasses. (I am unable to resist children with glasses.) After a long conversation and some delicious homemade Ethiopian food, we go upstairs to see their new porch. We stand on top of their house, with Addis spread out like a blanket and a furiously glowing moon, and I start to worry that I might never want to leave Ethiopia.

After B finishes church, her missionary friends take us all to a nearby restaurant for some ferenge food. Ferenge is the Amharic word for foreigner (or white foreigner, I guess), and it is a word we come to know very well. The restaurant serves hamburgers, and I am unable to resist, even though I don’t really like beef.

Bs friends have been living in Ethiopia for years and years, and they run a printing company for Christian publications. After lunch, they take us to check out their new construction, because they want T to make sure it’s legit. It doesn’t look particularly legit to T by Western standards, but in Ethiopia, he figures it’s fine. Now, if the whole thing collapses, I figure they can blame him.

When we get home, we meet Abebe, who is the social worker at AHOPE. He wants to take us to both children’s compounds, and I virtually jump in the van. As soon as we arrive at the younger compound, we are mobbed by kids. One little boy clutches some chalk and demands to know how to spell our names, which he then writes in the concrete floor. T starts to play soccer with the boys, and I spend my time with girls draped all over me.

The younger kids don’t look sick at all, for the most part. There are a couple of kids with molluscum (which look kind of like warts) or head fungus, but I would never be able to distinguish most of them from any other kids. They are just as adorable and boisterous as the other kids I have seen walking around, and they are immediately full of love. B has a special friend we’ll call The Belly, who is about 2, all stomach, and the happiest kid I have ever seen. On the other hand, M has a special friend who is the saddest, she tells me. He arrived at AHOPE a few months ago and is miserable. Ironically, his name means Happiness. The complex is separated from the road by a blue metal fence, and from outside, it looks pretty ramshackle. Inside, it is brightly colored, with murals of Disney characters on the walls and bunk beds in the three bedrooms.

Then we go to the older compound, which is where the kids older than seven live. There is a new basketball hoop installed, and the kids are going crazy for it. I ask Abebe which kid is the boy I sponsor, and he points him out and asks if I want to greet him. Then he sees that the boy is playing cards, so he tells me we will do it tomorrow.  T starts to join in the basketball with the boys and B, and they are soon crashing into each other and balls are flying everywhere.

M sits with the girls, playing a game that looks like jacks, but with rocks. She invites me to play, and so I sit with her and the two girls who are playing. The girls are very patient with me, but are clearly horrified by my ineptitude. One of the girls puts the rocks all together so I can easily grab them, and the other tries to stress to me that I need to throw the rocks higher. She stares at me intently, saying, Up! Up! repeatedly, and trying to demonstrate very, very slowly. Unfortunately, the stupid ferenge can’t get a handle on this game before it's time to go, but I leave anyway, delirious with happiness at the cute kids and horror at my hideous uncoordination.

I tell him my concern about Emirates being such a good airline that they would have a million delightful movies that I would be unable to resist. He tells me not to be ridiculous, that we haven't slept in a day and it would be foolish to stay awake even longer. I nod in agreement, and then sit in my seat. The first movie listed (out of 250+) is Juno and I tell him there is no way I will be sleeping. Instead, I spend most of the flight cracking up until he finally gives in and watches it himself, snorting with laughter from time to time.

When we land, the little boy in front of me starts to reach his tiny hand through the seats to touch mine. I whisper to him as we pull into the gate, and then his parents speak to us. They are en route to Houston, which means they have a long road ahead. Their son, who is about two, is delighted to be on the plane, and they're hoping he will keep it up.

We get a bus for what seems like miles, across the airport. When we get to the terminal, there are people everywhere and I tell T it is easily the busiest airport I have ever seen. We push through the throngs of people to get to the bookstore, where I snatch up two English books and we run to the gate. At the gate, the man behind the counter takes our tickets but tells us we have to wait for our boarding passes. We're getting an upgrade! I crow to T. He shakes his head sadly. No, they're separating us and putting us right next to the bathrooms.

GUESS WHO IS RIGHT? Hint: it is the person who is always right. Yes! MEEEEEEEEE! We take advantage of Dubai's fancy shininess to send a quick email to my parents and then board the Business Class! entrance (when one is speaking about flying Business Class!, it must always be capitalized with an exclamation point). Our seats are wide and soft and recline all the way back, which was especially good since the movies on this plane stink. I eat a CHEESE PLATE! for breakfast, with Real Western Cheese! Oh cheese, how I have missed thee. Paneer just ain't the same. Anwar the glorious flight attendant gives me the aforementioned cheese, and he is my new BFF, partly because he has to be nice to me, and partly because I think he is gay. I am pretty sure he recognizes me as his queen.

The rest of the time, we sleep. Then we awake in time to see Ethiopia out the window. And, in spite of myself, I start to cry. SHUT UP! I have wanted to see Ethiopia since I was nine years old, and trust me, that was a LONG time ago. Oh, and also, I am a sap.

there isn't really anything anyone can say. because unless you're in the shoe you wouldn't be able to understand the amount of pain it gets to you. the soreness. the random pain which comes when u least expect it. so great, that it blocks out everything else and makes the rest of the thing go away.

it hurts. u feel like u can't breathe. u feel like the whole world is tumbling down. the things that used to matter, they don't anymore. it hurts.

relationships, are like glass. sometimes it's best to leave them broken, because you'll just hurt yourself trying to piece them back together. isn't it crap? u know it just won't work out but you go for it anyhow. u put in 101% trying to keep whatever that's there. but what won't work just won't work. don't be sad that it's over, just be glad that you once had it.

i guess the only way is to keep breathing. breathe hard. and wish the pain will subside. wish you wake up the next day and everything's alright again. we just have to wait. be patient and wait. it's okay to fall. falling does not always suck, because then you'll know, i'll always be there to catch you.

India is a study in paradox and a constant assault on the senses. It is both maddening and endearing. It is filthy and spectacular. We have given beggars food and had kids share their food with us. I have wanted to punch a sadhu and hug a monk. I have had pervy men leer at me so creepily that I was afraid to be alone with them, and had women hold my hand so warmly that I didn't want to let go. I have said my name, my country and no thank you more times than I can count. We have seen the Himalaya, the Ganges, the Rajasthani desert and the crashing waves and lazy backwaters of Kerala. We have taken pictures of strangers and been in strangers pictures. We have seen kids chase us to say hello and watched children cry when their parents make them greet us. We have seen the chaos outside the Golden Temple and the silence outside the Dalai Lama's residence. I have seen more men peeing openly than ever in my life and seen women swim fully clothed. We have smelled the aroma of curry and the stench of urine. We have seen cows handfed chapatis and then watched them root through trash to find food. We have seen piles of rubbish and feces on the streets and the magnificence of the Baby Taj and Udaipur's floating palaces. We have seen Hindus, Sikhs, Buddhists, Muslims, Jains and Christians. We saw black dirt and belching smoke and more colors than I ever knew were in the spectrum. I ate the best food ever and still managed to lose weight. We have been followed, tugged on, and heard the desperate pleads of barefoot children and been asked for chocolate and pens by immaculately dressed kids just for the cheek of it. I have been driven to laugh, cry and scream in anger and frustration. We have shaken hands with innumerable men and kids and seen the shy smiles of women of all ages. We have seen dozens of people sleeping on the streets and we slept in the home of a wealthy family. We met Punjabis, Gujaratis, Rajputs, Keralans and Maharastrans. We have seen anger, resentment and lust and felt kindness from complete strangers. We have traveled in bicycle rickshaws, auto rickshaws, taxis, cars, trains, planes and buses.

We got all this, even from our sanitized view of India—the white man's English menu flashpacking version. We know a woman who saw prostitutes and a dead baby in the Ganges. We saw none of these things; maybe we didn't look close enough. I told a friend of mine that India had beaten the hell out of us, yet still lured us back in. She said, you have to love those abusive relationships. She nailed it exactly. One day we are exhausted by the poverty and filth and poverty, and the next we are invigorated by the vibrance of the architecture and the sweetness of the people. I don't know if we will miss India, or if we will come back. Either way, we will never forget it.

Our flight arrives at 8am and I immediately relax. The airport is tiny, with almost no one around, and there is a prepaid taxi stand. We pay to go to Fort Cochin and get in the back of the Ammbassador cab. The ride takes ages, but I dont mind, because I have the windows open and I can breathe in all the thick tropical air and look at the scenery.

We decided to go to Kerala because we repeatedly heard how nice it was. Kerala was Indias first socialist state, and also has a 92% literacy rate. Socialism + literacy = fun times! Cochin is outrageously green, with swaying palm trees and surprisingly little curbside trash. I give it my highest compliment when we are walking around town: it looks like Laos. The Fort Cochin area has wide, empty streets with colonial buildings and a canopy of green overhead.

At the far end of town, there are Chinese fishing nets dangling over the sea, and T and I take a walk past them and the men asking us to check out their fish. We walk along the water and I start to breathe more deeply, the way I always do when I am near the sea. We sit for ages on the rocks and watch the waves roll in, and try to eat our ice cream before it melts all over us, which is far easier for T than for me. On the way back to the hotel, a group of boys asks to take a picture with us, and we end up in yet another stranger's photos. The best thing about the proximity to the water is the seafood, and our first night in town I eat chili garlic prawns that are so good, they almost make me cry. Another day, we sit at a waterside cafe and watch some dolphins frisking in the water as we drink lime juice.

The one problem with Cochin is the humidity. When we told our friend Deepak from Dharamsala that we were going to Kerala, his eyes widened and he told us it would be hot and sultry. Later, we laughed at the word sultry, but he was exactly right. Cochin was H-O-T. Our guesthouse, the Padikkal Residency, is nice enough, though too expensive for the basic amenities it offers. We have a big room without A/C, and at night, we stick to our flat pillows and have trouble sleeping.

Another thing I love about Cochin is the kids everywhere. They run around in the afternoon in their little school uniforms and beg me to take their pictures. What can I say? I can never refuse an adorable child. Most of the kids in the Fort Cochin area seem to to go to the Catholic Church, but we also see Muslim and Hindu kids out on the streets as well. The kids at the guesthouse are similarly adorable, calling out LOOK! LOOK! when we come back, wanting to show us the henna tattoos their mother did on their hands. The older one tells me quite seriously, FISH, or MONKEY, as he points to the designs. In response, I ooh and aah. The best thing these kids do is when we come back on Saturday at about 10pm and they are running loose in the house. The older boy, who is about six, is dancing around all over. I am surprised they are still awake, and the boy sings out I DON'T SLEEP UNTIL TWO! T and I are shocked and ask when he wakes up. His father, looking exhausted, answers, eight, as he rolls his eyes.

Cochin is full of Christians, to the extent that many of the rickshaws have JESUS emblazoned on the front of them. On the other hand, there is also a Jew Town. I say this not because I am racist, but because it is the name of the neighborhood, and to prove it, I have pictures. T and I walk down to Jew Town one day to wander the narrow streets looking for some spices. The shop owners are highly solicitous, and many of them try to lure me into their stores to buy clothes or jewelry, even though I have repeatedly walked by and told them no already. We cant go into the synagogue in Jew Town because I am dressed like a skanky American (it is too hot to wear clothing with sleeves, and I also have shorts, which means my shoulders and knees are all exposed, which makes me a big white slut).

In Jew Town, we stop to get some drinks and the owner orders me a vanilla milkshake. It is the best vanilla milkshake I've ever had; so good that I have to order two. We also end up buying tickets for the kathakali performance that night, because the owner promises us front row seats and we havent seen any local performances in ages. The owner is a liar, because when we arrive that night, we are in row 8 out of about 10. And the kathakali is painful to see and hear. In a nutshell, it's mime with eardrum-breaking cymbals and cool makeup. The makeup takes about an hour, and for the second hour, we are left to listen to the CHANG CHANG CHANG of the cymbals, and we leave with agonizing headaches and a vow to never see local arts ever again. EVER.

The worst thing about Cochin is the heat, which is humid and sticky and causes me to sweat like a hog in heat (do hogs in heat sweat a lot? If so, then consider me one. If not, find another sweaty animal for comparison). People start to stare at me and say, So hot when I stagger over to speak to them. So, it turns out Deepak was partially right, though I would definitely say that Cochin was more sweaty than sultry.

cry the loudest cry

sigh the deepest sigh

wish i could laugh the heartiest laugh

sulk the sulkiest sulk (wtf)

throw 10 kinds of tantrums

sleep the soundest sleep

then wake up in a totally different place. in a place where i imagined everything i expected it to be. birds chirping in a gamut of melodious tones, sun shining, smell of bacon and eggs for breakfast. most importantly, all my worries would be gone and i got everything i am trying to get right now.

it's not even about it now. neither is it about anyone else.

given the situation couple of years ago, i would have think it was the end of the world. not would. i'm sure. afterall, nobody would know me more than myself. i would have curled up at home and cry my eyes out. but now i just deal with it, even it did affect me rather emotionally, but i was able to still to hold it in. sometimes i don't even know if crying out loud is better because then u would recover faster

honestly i've given up hope. instead of dwelling over what i should have done and what i should not, i have no regrets because i've done almost everything that i could. so if things did not turn out the way i want them to be, what have i got to say

accept it as a mistake and move on. thats what i've got to say. i was being made a fool of and being played time after time. i thought i've grown old enough to be able to judge people correctly but apparently i was still far from being able to grasp the skill. and u would think 1 lesson is enough for me but i just allowed myself to fall for it for the second time. why, u ask me? one word: stupid.

life ain't always beautiful. sometimes it's just plain hard. life can knock u down, and can break your heart. but it's the struggle that makes you stronger, and the changes make you wise. and happiness has its own way of taking it sweet time. tears will fall sometimes, but it's a beautiful ride nonetheless.

so today when i came home, i just couldn't stand all the things lying around. those things that once meant the most in the world to me. i did yet another cleaning, tucked everything safely away, double checking and making sure that they won't turn up again in another 10 years or so.

no one can find the rewind button so breathe...just breathe... let's cross finger and hope for the best for me okay

What we didn't already know was just how pretty it would be. Our rickshaw driver took us to our hotel just as kids were going to school; we passed kids in red and white uniforms and girls with long braids tied in circles, so that their droopy braids were held up by perky red bows. I liked Udaipur already.

And then we got to the hotel. As the second hotel on the crab-free plan, the Krishna Niwas was even more expensive than we planned, but we needed a place to stay. As we checked in, I sat on a bench, riveted by the paintings on the ceiling. All along the perimeter of the ceiling and the walls were delicately painted flowers in red and blue and gold. The owner of the hotel told us that he painted them himself. I can't imagine how long it must have taken him to paint every room and the atrium and the stairs, but it was worth it, because the hotel was stunning.

And then there was the roof deck. We went up for breakfast, which was brought to us by a waiter at the neighboring hotel. We sat in the scorching sun and ate toast, while looking at the two Udaipur palaces in the lake and the third, perched on a hill. The views only got better at night, when we went to dine twice at the neighboring hotel. On one night, we got there just before sunset, when the sun sank into the distant hills, turning the sky a bruise color before the hotel lights across the canal twinkled on, sparkling in the water. And, during this lovely meal, we ate my new favorite dish, masala papad (pappadum with something akin to our friend Ems salsa on top), and dal makhani and kadhai paneer. And things were good.

Udaipur's old city was a delight. First, there was so little trash and feces on the street that I could wear flipflops and my feet rejoiced at seeing the sun again. Second, the old city is a maze of tiny alleys and twisting roads, winding around and around. On our first day, we walked around and got lost in the little streets, as shopkeepers languidly waved hello and children ran up to shake our hands and run away. Third, there was no staring in Udaipur. It was like a gift from God. Instead, people were sunny and friendly and the kids were adorable, approaching us and saying Pen? Chocolate? Ten rupees? We had no pens or chocolate and they didn't look as if they needed 10 rupees, but it was incredibly endearing nonetheless. Fourth, good food in Udaipur. I love you, masala papad! Fifth, great shopping. I bought some cute leather shoes for $5 each. Because they were so cheap, I got two pairs! There were also Ganesh statues everywhere, t-shirts on every corner, and the ubiquitous pashminas. Finally, they had the world's cutest donkeys.

The bad thing was that we arrived just in time for the wedding of the power minister's daughter. Rumor had it that they had rented out the entire hotel at the Lake Palace and were being married at the other lake palace, which meant both were closed to tourists. This depressed me until I realized that a wedding costing $20M (again, rumor) meant FIREWORKS! Both weekend nights, we ran to the roof to watch fireworks falling over the City Palace, and then, over the Lake Palace. It looked like a million stars exploding in the sky and I like to think they weren't for the wedding; they were for us.

As T and I wandered the streets of Udaipur in the afternoons, the power
 to the town was cut for a few hours every day. Shopkeepers would sit
 in the darkened doorways of their stores, all chatting with their
 neighbors and not looking as though they were making any attempt to do any
 work. Kids ran rampant through the streets, playing cricket and chasing
 each other. T and I marveled at the fact that in India, it is not at all
 unusual to have scheduled daily blackouts, and secretly wished that
 things like that happened in America, so we could all chill out and talk
 to our neighbors. It should be noted that the power cuts did not happen
 during the weekend of the power minister's daughter's wedding. For $20M,
 you get electricity all weeekend.

Since we couldn't get into the lake palaces, we decided to tour the City Palace. Before we went in, we sent a few things back to America under the watchful eye of a very bossy postmistress, who informed us that it could take up to a year for the sea mail to arrive. Uh, great.

The City Palace was a disappointment to me. It was a rabbit's warren of back stairways and dingy hallways with a collection of thrown-together exhibits. Some rooms were lovely, but then they were negated by the narrow, dirty stairs we would have to navigate to escape. However, there were some good views.

One other noteworthy event happened while we were in Udaipur. I mention it not because I take pleasure in my husband's pain, but because it was the one time I have refused sugar. We decided to buy some sweets in Udaipur, to see if we could find the delicious halwa we had in Delhi. With the sweets we wanted came some dodgy-looking brown balls that resembled doughnut holes. We tried them, and I took one bite and spent the next 10 minutes trying to wash away the taste of the bottom of a shoe. T finished mine and the other two while I munched away happily on my Cadbury bar. The next day, SOMEONE was sick and for once, it was not ME! Thank you, Jesus.

T, everyone knows you shouldn't eat food that tastes like poop. It will never end well.

As in Agra, there was a prepaid rickshaw stand, but like everywhere else, as soon as the train arrived, rickshaw dudes were everywhere. One immediately found us and started talking, telling us that he could get a good rate and we really wanted to drive with him. I liked him; he looked like our friend Naz. Unfortunately, when we got to the pre-paid stand, his friend leapfrogged and stole the fare from him. The friend was not as likable. His name was Jimmy and he and another dude took us to the hotel in a real car, forcing us to look at Jimmy's book of comments from tourists the whole way. When we got to the hotel, they jumped out of the car and asked if we wanted them to drive us around the next day. We politely said no and tried to walk away and Jimmy immediately got in our faces and started yelling about how we were suspicious. WHY WERE WE SO SUSPICIOUS? Yo, Jimmy. We're suspicious because you are dodgy as hell and hey, here's a hint: this is not the way to get customers, you obnoxious prick.

Despite our unfortunate introduction, we were still so relieved to be out of Agra that everything seemed nicer in Jaipur. And we were certainly right about our hotel. As our first hotel on the no-crab-blankets plan, the Karni Niwas was also probably our Nicest Hotel Ever, or at least since the Relax in Phnom Penh. We had an immaculate room and a BATHTUB and a human-sized bathroom with two showers. Needless to say, we slept like babies there and then awoke very late and had a lovely brunch on our veranda, basking in the sunshine and listening to the thump-squeak of the shoes of the little girl wandering the hotel, calling for her papa.

When we emerged from the hotel, we were happily walking down the road when a rickshaw driver suddenly sprung out at the end of our road. I am Jimmy's friend, he said. Do you need rickshaw? What the FRIG?! What is Jimmy, the frickin' CIA? No! We don't want your stinking rickshaw, and even if we did, we certainly don't want it now, you creepy spying freak!

Our book had said that Jaipur was a little crazy, with all kinds of people and honking cars. Sure, this is true, but this meant two things: Jaipur was not Agra; and also, Jaipur had restaurants we had heard of, like McDonald's and Pizza Hut. Never in our lives have we been so excited to see a Pizza Hut.

But first, we walked into town. We walked down the main street, which was indeed full of honking cars and people, most of whom were staring at me, especially when I was carrying T's camera. Apparently, the only thing more riveting than a Slutty Western Woman is a Slutty Western Woman With A Camera! Had I only exposed a little more skin, their heads would surely have EXPLODED. That would have been fun.

The walled city of Jaipur is crammed full of tiny shops, with the names of the stores painted outside, because no neon lights are allowed inside the Pink City. It is called the Pink City because the outer walls are painted a rose color, as are most of the buildings inside. Old Jaipur was another city with slowly decaying architecture that, with a little bit of restoration, could be a glorious sight.

On our first day in the city, we decided to go to the Palace. We walked through the city, where people were popping up out of every nook and cranny wanting to talk to us. One kid came to ask us about the Western world, and then spent about five minutes telling us how in the Western world, people date openly, but in India this isn't the way. Thanks, kid! We had no idea!

The palace in Jaipur was somewhat disappointing, to be honest. After the Baby Taj and all the forts, it didn't seem quite as majestic as the others. As soon as we walked in, there was a tiny man in a Rajput uniform who asked me to take his picture. Not wanting to be rude, I did, and then he wanted money, OF COURSE. Duh, when am I going to learn? Perhaps a better question is, when will I just be rude and save ourselves some damn rupees?

Though much of the palace seemed a little bland, parts of it were stunning. There was one building housing the textile exhibit that was as delicate as a wedding cake inside. And there was an arcade, oh God, that was just lovely. There were breathtaking paintings over every door, of peacocks and flowers and all kinds of beauty. After walking through the museum, we decided to have a snack and a drink before walking home. In the courtyard, there was a man and his son, dressed in traditional costume, playing music and dancing. We ordered Limcas and an Indian sweet which was delicious until my last bite, in which I found a hair. A short, black, kinky hair. I do not wish to discuss it further lest I retch in my mouth.

For dinner, we had Pizza Hut. I know, I know, but it had been months since we had Western food and sometimes you JUST NEED SOME PEPPERONI. It was delicious, so get over it.

I awoke for the second time to the sounds of a funeral marching through town. I ran out to our tiny porch and walked the women walking past our hotel. I have never seen such a glorious collection of color in my life. If God created color for India, then Rajasthan is the reason he created it. The women were all clad in brilliant pinks and reds and greens and yellows and purples and golds and I thanked God for letting me see this kind of vibrance, even if it is only in India.

Our second day was spent shopping. Joy had told us that Jaipur had the best shopping, so we decided to check it out. And so, we walked back and forth along the shopfronts, with people running after us, calling PASHMINAS?! BLANKETS?! SHOES?! and occasionally, to me, We have BIG SIZE! BIG SIZE! Um, thanks. You would think I was some kind of giant. Two noteworthy things happened when we were shopping; first, even more people told me I looked Punjabi. I was tremendously excited about this until I read a book that described Punjabis as "bothersome, tasteless, showy, nouveau riche, pushy people." Oh. Perhaps not such a compliment, then. Now I am both enormous and tacky! Second, the staring continued in a highly obvious manner until I made a realization. If I walked along, not looking at the offenders, I didn't notice the slack-jawed, bug-eyed starers, and it was like they didn't even exist! Of course, you can hardly blame them, given that I am such a gargantuan, shameless hussy of a cheesy Punjabi.

We cracked on our third day and decided to hire the hotel's designated rickshaw driver to take us around. We had a number of errands we had to do, and we had only one day to do it. Abdul, a round-faced, smiley man, came to fetch us and he brought us to the train station. We needed tickets from Ahmedajad to Bombay and we couldn't get them online. So we waited, in the queue for freedom fighters, journalists and foreign tourists. Sometimes India really does crack me up.

After the train station, we needed to go to the post office (I mean, really, where else would you have the tourist rickshaw take you?). We thought the post office would be a piece of cake—get in, get some boxes for our packages, and get out. We forgot we were in India. In India, one does not buy boxes for packages. One gives one's package to a man who wraps it in newspaper, rips off a piece of a sheet and SEWS the package inside the sheet. We had four packages (one of which was pretty big), so it took quite a while. However, watching the man sew them up was riveting. I've never seen someone sew so effortlessly or quickly, and our trip to the post office ended up being one of our favorite experiences in India.

Finally, Abdul could take us to do some real tourist stuff. First, he took us to see the royal cenotaphs. The tombs were made of Indian and Italian marble, and though the Italian marble structures were under construction, they were still beautiful, with local kids crawling all over and following us around, asking ten rupees? In the end, we bought them some chips and called it a day.

On the way to Amber Fort, Abdul took us for a quick stop at a palace surrounded by water. We also passed elephants with their faces painted in bright yellows and greens and pinks, returning from their days work at the Fort. They were beautiful, but there seemed something humiliating about having their faces painted that way, and it hurt my heart to think of such magnificent animals being reduced to carrying lazy tourists up a hill all day long.

The fort was lovely. We got there in late afternoon, when the sun was starting to sink beneath the nearby hills, and everything was bathed in golden light.

Perhaps because we were there so late, there weren't too many tourists and we had the place nearly to ourselves. All to ourselves and a big gang of kids who were crazy for pictures and who would approach us shyly, asking to have their pictures taken, before running away, shrieking like banshees once the deed was done.

After the fort, Abdul took us shopping, much to T's chagrin. First, we went to a textile factory where I bought a pashmina and some blankets. The factory, which billed itself as not being tourist-oriented despite the string of Westerners walking through, made lovely rugs as well as blankets and pashminas, and if we were rich, we would have left with a lot more.

Then he took us to a jeweler. We stopped on a side street, walked through a pitch-black courtyard and down a darkened alley to get there, with T whispering to me, We would never do this with a driver we found on the street. The jeweler was all charm, telling us his name was Chili Chocolate, and desperately trying to get me to buy more! I should buy from him, because everything in Udaipur is fake! In the end, I got some earrings and bracelets and ole Chili Chocolate made out quite well (as did Abdul, who would have got a fat commission from both places).

To ease T's pain about our rapidly dwindling wallet, I distracted him with food. Because Abdul had to leave us at the train station and the textile factory to pray, we had him for a few extra hours, and at 8, he dropped us at Handi for dinner. Oh my GOD. It was so super delicious, I wondered why we had eaten anywhere else ever in our lives. We had our favorites, dal makhani and kadhai paneer, and we tried not to drool on the table. After dinner, we happily returned to the train station, where we boarded a second-class train with two very nice men, and I fell into a deep, deep sleep, full of dal and color and happiness.