Arrogance or humility?

Frustration here in India tips dangerously sometimes into rage, and it's not always obvious why. Today, I discovered that the fee to print out a single page at the hotel's "business centre" was 150 rupees (about $4). The fee--its amount or its existence--wasn't posted anywhere. There was absolutely no notice of what amounted to a hidden, ridiculous fee. But what triggered something akin to rage was the fact that when I complained, I was told, "Yes, that is unfortunate, but I can't do anything about that. That is the fee...," then asked a moment later, "Would you like to make any suggestions or recommendations? How can we improve our service?" Yes, here's a recommendation: put a sign up and refund me the ridiculous charge! "I'm sorry, that's not possible, but thank you for your suggestion. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

It would be one thing if there had been some kind of notice posted at the computer or door. I'd have had to suck it up. I definitely wouldn't have felt compelled to violently scribble across the proffered feedback form, or to speak to the head-wobbling but inert manager about the latest of many annoying hidden fees. But there had been no notice! As with so many things, it seems that, in India, there are a gazillion rules and no way of agreeing to abide by them in advance, or to consciously disobey them. How can a society function without the concept of notice?!

But maybe my anger wasn't really about notice.

If this were France or Russia, and the staff just shrugged scornfully and didn't care to hear why I was so pissed, I would be angry, but condescension wouldn't be part of the mix. Why? Because the arrogant nonchalance with which my complaint would be treated would smack of willfulness, not incompetence. Why is willfulness somehow less scornworthy than incompetence? Perhaps even while an arrogant refusal to help is a form of deliberate incompetence, there remains a fragment of a respectable trait: arrogance is the darkling cousin of confidence, which is something Americans admire and envy.

This hotel manager, however, was not arrogant. He never looked me in the eye with an attitude remotely conveying, "To hell with your complaint; pay up." His attitude conveyed something approaching grovelling, or an extreme dutifulness to customer service at the same time that his answers completely failed to fulfill that duty. It suggested, simulateneously, goodwill and stupidity--a combination of qualities that is hard to respect. But shouldn't a genuine desire to remedy or improve something be admired and appreciated, even before or without results or success?

Why is goodwill mixed with failure infuriating in a way that mere laziness or obstructiveness is not?

The only answer I can stomach is that I was seeing through a servile hypocrisy. That I didn't really believe the manager when he said, "We'd like to know what you think would improve our service." That I thought he was lying and using false humility to take the firm ground of victimhood from under my angry feet. After all, to continue to be angry with him would make me a mean, demanding Westerner, wouldn't it?

But the other, less comfortable answer is that I really was a mean, demanding Westerner.

Who *is* Big B?

Amitabh Bachchan. He is ubiquitous. His eyes aren't shifty, yet you can't tell exactly where he's looking (certainly not at the camera itself, even when addressing it). He didn't always have the white goatee, although now it may as well be his trademark. He looks like the fuzzy monkeys with long rubber-band-like tails that scamper across the road in the hills.



He blogs!

Ladakh

I'm in Leh, the capital of the northern region of Ladakh. The area is mostly Tibetan Buddhist, and Tibetan refugees sell scarves and jewelry in the bazaar. It's strange to think of them as refugees: when I think of refugees, I think of people in squalid camps who are completely dependent on the largesse of the host country and ostracized from the host population, but here, Tibetans seem to be the majority in this area. And the biggest thing in town is the Dalai Lama, who has been giving talks for the last few days in a nearby campground. I can hear honking all around the neighboring fields. I think the entire town and region is driving over to see him. The guesthouse manager said the car would come at 6:30am for those who wanted to go, even though the speech would not begin until 8:30am --and just 7 km away.

Still, not everyone here is Buddhist. A little after 5am, a Moslem call to prayer sounded, long and incantatory. Perhaps a half hour later, it was the low drone of Buddhist horns. After that, the long high crows of roosters. Not unpleasant at all. The sun came out at a little before six, and the air smells smoky and sweet. It is so beautiful here, in the river oasis of this high desert: poplar trees stand with branches vertical, like people with arms at their sides. Barley fields have wide and variously-directed whorls. Cows wander down the narrow town lanes, moo-ing very loudly.

Which brings to mind the flight up here from Delhi, past the gigantic foothills of the Himalayas, moving higher to the actual mountain range. Large patches of snow cap the peaks of reddish-brown mountains and disappear down steep flanks cut jagged by the wind. In the morning light, the mountains resembled a skinny cow, its spotted hide stretched taut over its ribs.

Waking up in Delhi

7am: woke up earlier to the sound of birdsong out the window and chattering, bantering conversation from a room nearby after three hours of sleep on a hard Indian canopy bed, naked without its mosquito net dress. Half awake, I watched a soft silver beam of light move very slowly across a t-bar at the foot of the bed, illuminating the grain of the dark wood. I watched mosquitos testing the reach of the ceiling fan's wake. I couldn't see anything that I heard, and I couldn't hear what I could see.

I think that India will probably be like this hard bed, the kind of bed that points out all the misalignments in your body, all the crooked tilts of asymmetrical hips and shoulder blades.

Back from the Dead

Today I read a NYT article that discussed Obama's and Clinton's rhetoric on the war in Iraq. Apparently, the term "civil war" has finally reared its cowardly head, and the candidates are using it as code for "not our business." Hilary has gone so far as to imply that the current situation is all the Iraqis' fault, and that the U.S. is no longer responsible for cleaning up their mess.

Truly appalling. Even if the current situation is a manifestation of centuries-old "sectarian rife," the fact is that the U.S. invasion left Iraq without a real government to keep the animiosities in check. We created just the right amount of chaos to provide enabling cover and excuse for latent conflicts to reemerge with a vengeance. To say that the "civil war" is entirely of the Iraqis' making is truly rich.

I also find it interesting that Oback Barama is so adamant about removing U.S. troops from a civil war in Iraq. If it is always a foregone conclusion that the U.S. should never be embroiled in civil wars, i.e. domestic disputes, then I wonder what Barama would say about whether the U.S. should intervene in the genocide in Darfur, which is, in a way, a civil war on amphetamines.

My question is: why doesn't the U.S. simply admit that it was foolhardy in taking on sole responsibility for Iraq and appeal to the UN to help stabilize Iraq? It seems to me that complete withdrawal would be a serious disservice to Iraq, considering that we created the mess in the first place.

I'm off to read about the Ottoman Empire.

So apparently, Mars is to be as big as the moon right around September 4th, an event that only occurs once every few hundred years. And, of course, because it happens so rarely, it's very important and must be seen. People with rooftops have been planning Mars-sighting parties; brides and grooms are incorporating Mars into their toasts, and wild animals are planning an invasion. (Question: are all rare things in fact important and marvelous?)

As it turns out, it's a big rumor. Mars will be bright and shiny, but big as the moon? Nope. Oh well.

Independence Day

I took this picture last year outside IKEA in Elizabeth, NJ. I had just moved back from Paris and was feeling, overall, excited and manic about making a great life again in New York. It was one of those instances where you have to believe something fervently in order for it to transpire. But this was a moment that caught me off guard and had me wishing I was on that plane.

A lot changes in a year. My friend just married a French guy, and I helped entertain a small squadron of French cousins and friends. It was great to speak French again; to slip back into a mental skin that's shrivelled over the year.

On a separate note, I've been busy rearranging the furniture in my apartment, clearing out whatever stands in the way of furniture legs. I've never been much of a minimalist--I like a fair amount of book and paper clutter--so the idea of having nothing *resting* on the floor, apart from furniture, is intriguing.

Now *this* is spring

I couldn't be happier... It's warm enough to wear a tank, sunny enough to smile, and balmy enough to feel your hair move on your shoulders.

Jeanette Winterson's new novel Lighthousekeeping is sublime.

Essays

On several occasions back home, when people discovered I live in Paris, they would say, "Oh, what a wonderful place to write about!" And I would smile and play along, secretly wondering if I would ever write about Paris. It had never occurred to me during the first three years here to set any of my stories in Paris, or to directly write about my experiences here. Why?

After Nina Simone, another great discovery: Montaigne. I like the personal nature and form of his essays, his expert knowledge of history and its anecdotes, and, most of all, the absence of firm conclusion. He doesn't show you the right path (of truth, beauty, whatever) but an entire landscape. He points out the different terrains, gives you some bearings, then finally leaves you to weave your way however you like. Granted, I'm still in the first book of the Essais; perhaps this openness is merely the openness of beginnings.

Anyway, back to not having written about Paris. In his essay on sadness, Montaigne recounts the story of an Egyptian king who is defeated by the Persians and must watch his daughter humiliated in servants' clothes and his son led to his death. He doesn't show any emotion. It is only when he sees one of his old servants among the captives that he weeps. The Persian king asks why he cried for his servant and not for his own children. And he replies, "It is because only the last displeasure could be expressed by tears, the first two being far beyond expression." Later in the essay, it turns out that great joy too might lie beyond words and expression. Montaigne sums up the Greek philosopher Seneca by saying, "All passions that can be tasted and digested are mediocre."

I really did fall in love with Paris about six months after moving here. The first spring here struck me completely dumb. After such a long and difficult winter, long days of soft sunshine and , alternately, field- and sea-scented breezes made me giddy. For the first time, I could understand where the cliche of spring signifying rebirth and miracles came from. But I never wrote about all that beauty until recently. Perhaps it's the fact that I'm leaving that makes me willing to accept a less-than-perfect representation of what I love about Paris; I don't trust my memory, and a mediocre approximation is better than nothing. Maybe it's like watching a storm of beautiful birds swoop and flash their crazy colors above your head--you don't think, you revel. It's only afterwards, when the birds are gone, that you begin to tell yourself what you just saw.

Paris and Nina

Two months left to live in a privileged, dreamlike world of long walks, tall drinks, good company, and an unbeatable space to write in: Paris. It's spring showering outside today, and the trees are heavy with sodden pollen. I've just become friends with my downstairs neighbor, who is a Spanish anthropology student from Zaragoza. It is the first time I've even known the name of any neighbor, much less socialized with him, in years. It's a nice change, even if it means that I sometimes get an unexpected knock on my door and have to scurry for a pair of jeans. I've relished total anonymity a little too long, maybe.

I'm moving back to the States this summer, which fills me with trepidation, comfort, and, occasionally, panic. The hard part of having lived abroad for four years is that 'abroad' has become home; departures and homecomings are all mixed up and constantly evolving. I think I don't want to go back. I want to either stay where I am now or move forward somewhere new. I should stop thinking so linearly, e.g. I've already lived in NY, so if I go back there, I am not moving forward. Bull. Because it isn't so much the place as your spirit which determines whether it is new. I've learned that. Unfortunately, I've learned it by moving around, and the fact is that I want to keep learning things this way.

I've just discovered Nina Simone. A friend yelled, "I can't believe you've gone this long in life without knowing her!" Well, I guess one nice thing about not knowing everything already is the immense, novel, childlike pleasure when you *do* finally get with it. 'Do I Move You?' [yeahhh...!]