In Which I Fail to Procure the TP

This is a little indelicate, and I apologize, but: I'm almost out of toilet paper.

I'm watching my single roll go inexorably down down down, despite my best efforts at moderation, and I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do about it. Maybe steal some from work? I feel like I'd be discovered, and "Toilet Paper Thief" doesn't seem like a label I want to acquire after just one week here.

I've tried buying some, but TP is weirdly hard to come by in the villages around the school. I discovered this when I sidled over to the little shop nearby and tried my very best to get some.

The store is run by a very nice lady that everyone calls akka, which means "sister" in Kannada. I don't actually know her real name, so I usually just stick my face directly in front of hers and start talking. Anyway, if I want eggs or laundry detergent or those insect repellent coils that will give you cancer, the smoke is so toxic (I bought two the other day), her little roadside shop is the place to go.

But I needed toilet paper. I felt sure she'd have it. Unfortunately, she doesn't speak English and so far I only speak about five words of Kannada, so communication can be a challenge. Mainly, I rely on my village idiot grin, an expression of pleading hopefulness and gestures so flamboyant that I automatically win every game of charades in the whole world for the next month.

Anyway, I approached akka's store and bent conspiratorially over her front counter.

"Paper?" I whispered, because it's embarrassing.

She gave me a blank look.

"Paper," I tried again, the tinsiest bit louder, and gave her a knowing nod.

Still nothing.

"Toilet paper," I suggested in a strained stage whisper. "Uh, WC? Bathroom? Washroom?"

Nope.

Desperate, I curled my right index finger into a hook and frantically stabbed the air in the direction of my bottom: "Paper," I repeated. It was not my finest moment, I'll admit, but it did the trick. No dice, though.

Instead, I bought a fizzy apple drink and a package of cookies, slinking away with my sad consolation prize.

Maybe I can sneak into the students' dorms and steal some TP from there.

In Which How Weird Is Too Weird?

When it comes to the taste of water, I mean.

Obviously I boiled it until half of it was evaporated, but it still tastes... odd. Maybe it's just a matter of getting used to new water. Indian water! And anyone who says water doesn't have a taste has never been to central Florida. Or Bangalore, apparently. This water definitely has a taste.

But too much of one? I've been contemplating each mouthful. And the electric kettle does have some sort of weird, mineral-looking grunge on the bottom, which I'm unable to scrape off.

So, ha ha, yep.

Maybe I'll just wander over to the village this afternoon and see about a new one.

In Which Oh Good Grief, Not Again

I'm not saying it's the most pitiful thing in the world, but it certainly makes the list: the dorky, desperate hope that compels you to keep checking all the bags lurching past on the conveyor belt, even though you've checked them twice before.

Maybe third time's the charm! Maybe this time the navy blue suitcase that clearly isn't my navy blue suitcase will, um... magically be mine! Maybe it will contain all the stuff I'm generally indifferent to -- the 11 different iterations of breton-striped shirt, the mediocre hairbrush -- but now treasure with a fervor usually reserved for snake handling or fan fiction.

But nope, my suitcases decided to loiter in Frankfurt, for the pretzels and beer, apparently. Meanwhile, I arrived in Bangalore.

Unlike when I moved to China and my bags went missing for several days, however, this time I vowed to handle it with fewer tears and more equanimity. A man named Franklin is on the case, and when he told me that maybe my bags went to New Delhi, I did my best to smile beatifically. Who wouldn't want to go to Delhi? It's great there!

He said maybe they'd arrive tomorrow, but maybe not. Swell! I'll just toddle over to the village and buy a sari!

Welcome to India. I really am thrilled to be here.

In Which Eggplants Are Beautiful and Delicious

By the time I mentioned that eggplants are purple, all hope was lost. The house built of my Chinese flash cards was about to topple, with me inside it.

I offered a winning smile to my mystified audience and tried not to betray my hysterical internal monologue: THINK!! What else are eggplants? Oblong. Like I even know that word in Chinese. Actually, they're shaped like my old piano teacher. Maybe I should mention that? And they're delicious, but I've pointed that out already. They're cute, with their little green caps, and shiny if they're fresh. Ha ha. Ha. WHY ARE YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT EGGPLANTS?? AAIIIEEEEEEE!! They're so pretty.

What began with bananas and good intentions had come to this.

Before me sat the headmaster and vice-headmaster of my school, the school's Communist Party representative, some guy I didn't know and Alena, the long-suffering foreign affairs liaison who hired me. They'd come to my apartment bearing gifts -- two cases of milk, three dozen bananas, some mangos and a bag of oranges -- and sympathy. It had been officially decided that Life Is Not Easy for Foreigners in Xinjiang Right Now.

And they were right. After the July 5, 2009, riots in Urumqi, internet service to the whole province had been blocked, as well as phone calls dialled to or coming from outside Xinjiang. By December, the other foreign teachers and I were feeling varying degrees of isolation.

Hence the goodwill visit. They filed into my apartment, borrowing from the News Anchor's Big Book of Emotions: So sad you can't talk to your family (frown, mournful shake of the head). But (smile, encouraging nod)! Here are some bananas!

They sat down and beamed at me. The headmaster offered a brief speech about, essentially, how nice it was that I hadn't broken my contract and fled the province (I'm reading between the lines of Alena's translation). Then he threw my second graders in my face: They love you and you love them, right? Right? Please don't break your contract.

I tried my best to reassure him in Chinese: "I don't! I don't!"

We all smiled and nodded in "yep, yep, yep" fashion, and an unwelcome silence blossomed and grew. Finally, Alena asked me in English whether I often cook at home.

I thought, since they'd been so kind with the bananas and all, that I should do my best to reply in Chinese. I mean, I'd been studying and I knew a lot of nouns...

"Sometimes," I answered. "Sometimes I cook tomato and egg. Fry them. Delicious!" They nodded agreeably; tomatoes and eggs are, indeed, delicious. "But sometimes after school I tired, you know. I don't cook. I eat chocolate and bread." Why chocolate and bread? Who even knows. It was all I could think of.

"But yesterday!" I continued. "Yesterday, I cook eggplant. I love eat eggplant, but in America I don't eat eggplant. I don't know why not." They shook their heads, mystified. They didn't know why not, either.

"In China, I want eat eggplant every day! Too delicious! Ha ha!" The ha ha helped, I think. "Yesterday, I cook eggplant and garlic together. Also, tomato and ginger. Maybe onion? I think so. Also, white rice. Delicious!" They glanced at each other and nodded. Yum.

By now, I was sweating and panicked. I'd charged down the eggplant road without a map. "Um," I said. "Eggplant best beautiful vegetable! I think! Purple! Also, healthful."

That was all I could do. I slumped back in my chair, vapor locked, and offered a wan smile to my perplexed audience. They glanced at their watches: Hey, would you look at the time! As one, they rose and offered me best wishes for health and prosperity and happiness and... whatever. Bye-bye.

Ha ha! Bye-bye! Let's eat eggplant together sometime! Ha ha! Ha.

Back to the flash cards.

In Which I Take it Back

Donkey, when prepared correctly, is tasty.

Donkey skin, on the other hand...

In Which I Eat Donkey

I thought it was beef with an unseemly past.

It was not delicious.

And that's all there is to say about that.