The India Chronicles: Hello from Hyderabad

Family and friends,

I feel like I’m writing a mission letter. Greetings from the other side of the world!

 Let me paint you a picture of Hyderabad, India. Imagine, if you will, a large city. Huge buildings that all look like apartment complexes. Flatten all the roofs, take out window panes, add bars on the windows and those metal pokey pigeon-perch-preventors. Color everything with a pastel green, purple, blue or pink, then add 50 years of wear on the façade. Add a lot of dirt, make everything dusty. Place trash everywhere. I mean everywhere. (I never thought wastebaskets would be a luxury I’d miss). Then top it off with an oppressive, humid heat and you’ve got inner-city Hyderabad!

            These are the rules I’ve figured out when walking across the street: 1) keep a steady pace. Don’t get scared by the masses of oncoming traffic and run. 2) try not to die.

            The traffic is even better when you’re riding on a bus! If you have motion sickness, you should get over that really quickly. There’s a loud cacophony of horns, every vehicle blaring to try and pass the one in front of it—even the buses. The driver of said buses is driving a manual vehicle; his 4-foot stick shift sits 2 feet behind him. I had to stop watching.

There is a happy ending to all of this. We got off the bus in the slum. Truly the most wonderful place I’ve ever been. The slums here are not what you might think of. Some might be I guess. Frequently the government will bulldoze slums made up of tarps and tin roofs. However this particular one proved they were an organized community and came together to appeal to the government, and became recognized as a legitimate community. Now they have permanent cement walls, and permanent dirt roads, and they are the nicest people I’ve ever met. We mostly met women and children. The women are so welcoming, friendly, kind and incredibly beautiful. (Indian people arebeautiful. A lot of the city center advertisements are western women wearing traditional Indian clothing. I do not understand because the people here are just stunningly beautiful in their own right). The kids kill me. The children here are SO CUTE. If I died today, having experienced nothing else besides playing patty-cake with the three adorable wide-eyed little Indian girls, I will die happy. Yes, there was a bit of a language barrier. We had a mild translator, but for the most part we didn’t really understand each other. Even so, we LOVED one another. Something you can’t really describe, but it was a wonderful feeling. If I experience nothing else besides this feeling of love, I will deem this trip a success.

are they not just darling?!

         

seriously the cutest. right? 

Some other fun facts about my current state:

The time difference is not that noticeable. Hyderabad is almost exactly the same time as Utah, I looked at my watch I was only ½ hour ahead. Well 11 ½ hours behind actually. After 28 hours of traveling, 2 days have passed.

It’s hot here. My hands are covered with a nice moist layer of moistness. Moist. 

The airline lost my bag. Luckily all my valuables were in my backpack, except my camera.  But the airline gave me a toothbrush! So I’m really living the dream out here with only one outfit. For a while I wasn’t worried, but now I’m beginning to think I’d enjoy a clean shirt. And I would really really enjoy wearing something other than jeans and sneakers. Did I mention it’s hot here? Socks don’t exist on anyone else in the entire country besides me.

Also, thanks to the most wonderful phone carrier, I can text! So if you want to text me, you can! I'd seriously love to hear from you.

Love you all! 

-Averill 

follow up from my prince at the bar

So last weekend, I got hit on by a guy at a bar. (or the closest thing BYU has to a bar.) To read that story, and fully appreciate this follow-up Click HERE.

I did give the guy my number, and I have a rule that I can't say no to a first date, so I went to lunch with him. 

The following is a series of factual statements of events with zero judgment, just actual occurrences from the date. You are welcome to draw your own conclusions as to whether or not you would have enjoyed this date: 

• His favorite color is Yellow. "Yellow is a girlie color, you know spring and flowers and all that. But you haven't heard my reasoning!" 
• The "Crotch Rocket," (which is a motorcycle apparently) is Yellow. Obviously.
•  As I was eating the lettuce wraps from P.F. Changs (you know the really messy ones you eat with your hands), a small piece of chicken fell onto my plate. He said with sincere happiness, "I'm so glad you're a messy eater! Cause it makes me feel more comfortable! Now I can eat like a slob because you do!"
• He took the entire serving dish worth of spicy mustard (their equivalent of wasabi) and put it on one bite to "feel like a man." I asked him if it worked, if he felt like a man. He said yes. 
• On the way out the door, he walked me to my car and held out his hand. "Will you hold this while I go for a walk?"
• I responded by shaking his hand. Like meeting-a-new-boss hand shake. He said, "You're funny!"
• As I was rummaging in my backseat putting my wallet back, he said, "I left you a little note to remember me by" and winked as he walked away. 
• Drawn by his finger in the dirt on my back windshield were the words "WASH ME"
• As he pulled around his car out of the parking lot, I was still standing outside, and I hear: "OW OW" in the good, old-fashioned cat-call style. 

this is a model--not my date. 

I might have to amend my "no saying no to a first date" rule. 

getting hit on at a bar: an odd cliche

BYU has been rated the #1 stone-cold sober school for the last 20 years. There's not a big "bar scene" here.

Last night I went to a concert at the closest thing BYU has to a club--"The Wall." My friend's band was playing, so I went to go see him there. I left my pregnant friend at our table, and went to the "bar" counter to get us two glasses of water. 

I'm standing at the counter and I hear a guy saying, "hey. Psst! Hey!" Until I look over and find a young man with his fist holding up his chin, the other hand around his drink (lemonade I think) sitting at the bar, trying to get my attention. 

"Yes...?"

"Can I tell you a secret?"he shout-whispers over the music. 

"Sure"

"You're beautiful" 

I laugh, awkwardly. He was almost charming. certainly bold."Thanks."

(Had I been on my game, I would have said, "That's not a secret!" missed it.)

"Can I tell you another secret?"

"uh... sure?"

"'s not really a secret, it's a question." 

"Ok" He was acting a little drunk frankly. I'm 100% certain he wasn't. Perhaps this pseudo-bar-esque atmosphere just makes people a little weird. 

"How tall are you?"

"5'9". how tall are you?"

how long does it take to fill 2 glasses of water??

"6'1""

"good height" 

"really?" he looked like a kid on Christmas morning. Like that was the most wonderful thing he'd heard all year.

"Hey--you got any sweet plans for the weekend?"

"uh... I dunno" 

"well here!"He whips out a pen, and a napkin, and slides them both across the bar. "give me your number and maybe we can make some."

Shoot. I should've seen that coming. I didn't want to be rude. and I feel like he had the guts to ask, and I'm stuck here waiting for my water... What was the guy doing? getting the oxygen and hydrogen molecules separately to watch the chemical reaction turn to liquid? 

He got a funny little side smile at his  accomplishment in obtaining my number. And I caught a glance at the shirt he was wearing: "You don't need a permit for these guns" with two arrows pointing at his biceps. Classy. 

Finally my waters were handed to me over the counter. 

"I'll see you later" he called as I turned to go back to my table.

When I arrived, my friend, having observed the whole ordeal, was laughing out loud. 

"That was wonderful" She said through giggles.

"Shut up" I said playfully, "the sacrifices I make to bring you water!"

"I'm so glad I'm not still single. Single life is the worst!"

Truth. 

Searching for Signal

A little while ago, a big group of friends (a Nauvoo reunion for those of you who know what that is) went down to Southern Utah for an adventure. Monday morning: sandwiches packed, granola bars in hand, maps at the ready, everyone was set to drive to our destination trail head to start the hike. We stop at the visitor's center to clarify our route, and I look at my phone to check the time.

 A little bit of back story: for the past month, I've been desperately job searching. I'd been rejected, I'd exhausted my resources, and the only jobs I got were "direct advertising" and "financial planning" which is euphemistic for Sam's Club and Insurance sales.

I was waiting to hear back from my ONE, LAST, HOPE for summer employment. I'd interviewed with them the week before and they told me they'd let me know by the beginning of the next week.

So here we are, Monday at 11:00am. I have one missed call, from an unknown Utah number, and a new voice message. But I can't check the voice mail because we have NO service in the depths of Capital Reef National Park. 

You can imagine my distress. What if they're calling me to tell me I didn't get it? Or what if they're calling to say I did?! What if they need me to call them back ASAP with.. I don't know...insurance info? Or a work-email password? Or my shoe size? I've never had a real-life grown-up job--that could be a thing.

So my sweet friend, David Thunell, offers to drive me out of the canyon until I get service so I can check my voice mail and hear my fate for the rest of the summer. Everyone lovingly complies and agrees to wait for us at the base of the trailhead. We wind slowly out of the canyon, with little bits of cell service, coming in and out. My angst growing by the second. Finally we reach a place with a comfortable 3 bars, and I call my voice mail and hear the demonic, automated words:

"You've reached the voice mail box of ____Averill Corkin__ Please leave a message" BEEP

"Thunell!" I panic, "There's something wrong. When I call my voice mail, it won't let me check it, it wants me to leave a message. This has never happened before."

"We can call it on my phone. Do you know your password?"

"No." I'm useless. My future career is a button click away, and the stupid button won't click correctly!

"Here, I'll leave you another message" He calls me on his phone, we hear: "You've reached the voice mail box of ____Averill Corkin__ Please leave a message. BEEP"

"Sister Corkin!" In his best pick-up-line voice (which is very smooth, Thunell, by the way), "How bout you and I hang out a little bit later, ya? I'll call you later to make sure you say yes ;)"

New Voice Message appears on my screen. I click the button. 

What I should hear is "You have two new Voice messages. To listen to your messages press one" but instead I hear, "You've reached the voice mail box of ____Averill Corkin__ Please leave a message" BEEP

GAH!

We turned off and on the phone, we checked my data, we checked my email, everything we could think of. My heart was pounding faster by the minute.  

Finally the message came through as a visual voicemail. I listened with baited breath. Then gave the OK to drive back to the trailhead and report the news to my family waiting there. 

As we pulled in, the YPMs gathered around the car with hopeful faces. Whisperings of "did she get it?"..."she's smiling!" ..."That's a good sign!" until I popped out of the car and reported:

"That was Michelle, from the office on State Street" 

"And...?"

"And she was calling to remind me I have an orthodontist appointment tomorrow at 2:00"

Everyone burst out laughing with relief and grief at the same time. We then had a wonderful hike and a wonderful weekend. 

And when 2:00 rolled around the next afternoon, I spaced and missed my orthodontist appointment completely. 

Colorado Diet

One of the greatest joys of going home to your parents' house is the ability to open a fully-stocked refrigerator, and eat whatever looks good. Most college students would attest to that statement. In Provo,  I eat a steady diet of Oatmeal Squares cereal and cheese sticks, so this semester, especially, I was looking forward to a healthy variety of fuel. However, this morning, as I was rummaging through my parents' pantry, I was hit with a bit of a predicament.


Let me tell you a little about my parents:
My parents go through phases.

They pick something and go ALL IN, whatever it is. They buy every book on the subject, read every article, go to every big site, join every club. They become decently good experts on any given subject, and then move on to the next phase.

I could write a book about the different phases, but some highlights include
-electric train modeling
-horseback riding
-fly-fishing
-rock tumbling/polishing
-motorcycling (mom wasn't thrilled about that one)
-bird watching (also probably not my mom's favorite thrill)
-have-a-heart squirrel hunting
-gardening
-barbecuing
-photography/underwater photography
-open water canoeing
-tennis playing
-scuba diving

Not to mention the many diets they have come in and out of:
-Gluten-free
-Dairy-free
-Sugar-free
-Vegetarian
-Vegan
-Paleo (i.e. basically veggies, nuts, and meat)

and various combinations of the six.

Which leads me to the point of this story.

I have no idea what this current diet phase is called, but when I opened the pantry door to look for breakfast, I was greeted with this:

My predicament was that I didn't even know how to consume any of this... 

I finally saw something that looked like cereal. And settled on pouring organic almond milk on top.

I'm going to eat my bowl of Veganic Sprouted Ancient Grain Flakes now.

not-so-pitch-perfect

Upon my return from my mission in Nauvoo in August, a friend and I decided on a new life motto: For the Adventure, for the Story. Ben and I agreed that if we were ever in a position to do something maybe a little out of the norm, we would seize the opportunity to have an adventure, or at least have an interesting story out of it.

Fast forward about a month. I was sitting on a full plane, and it had just been announced that we will have to wait on the landing strip for another hour until we get the clear to take off.  You can imagine everyone’s joy in hearing that news.

I hadn’t eaten all day, and my stomach was audibly rumbling. Trying to be as positive as possible to the steward, I asked for a cookie, or a cracker, or some pretzels, whatever they had. I could tell the man was frustrated, not everyone was trying as consciously as I to be kind. (The poor guy, it wasn’t his fault the plane was delayed. He was just the only person nearby on which the passengers could direct their anger). He told me he’d get me a cookie.

20 minutes later, I flagged him down—cheerfully and politely of course—and asked again, “I’m really sorry. I’m not upset, I’m just a little bit starving. Could you grab that cookie for me?”

“Sure”

Then he disappeared again.

“He’s probably not coming back with a cookie, is he?” I asked the nice couple sitting next to me.

“Nope” We all chuckled despairingly.

“So” I began, as is my custom on airplanes, “Are you going home, leaving home, or neither?”

We got to chatting. They asked me about my performance mission, and about my new singing group, and somehow my random vision of a musical flash mob on an airplane came up. 

The older woman said, “All those musically things, you must be great! OOO! Honey! You’ve gotta sing for us! For the plane!”

I laughed, “You’re too sweet. I’m not really.” She was cute.

But then I couldn’t get the idea out of my head.

Big bucket list check-off… when would I ever have a captive audience wherein anybreak from staring at the back of an unmoving seat would be welcome? The more I pushed the thought away the more it stood festering, growing until I couldn’t let it go. It’d be a great story, Ben.

I got up, the music to my vocal jazz group's arrangement of  “In My Life” by the Beatles in my hand. A song we had just barely started learning. (How silly would it have been for me to sing a song I actually knew? no. that would be ridiculous.)

“Hey everyone…” I looked back at the row I just crawled out of as they gave me two big smiles and thumbs ups, “I…uh… I have to have this song memorized before tomorrow for this group I’m in…” Every single eye was glued on this bizarre behavior of a girl standing in the isle, “Since we’ve all got nothing better to do, I was wondering if I could sing it for you?”

Immediately, what seemed like hundreds of phones were pointed in my direction, video recording mode on. I got a few encouraging nods and so I took a deep breath. For the story.

I lifted the music while the sheet had a seizure because my hands were shaking so much.

I started singing. About half way through the first verse, I realized this had been a very bad idea. What was coming from my mouth sounded a little off. That is because I learned the alto part of a jazz arrangement. So what I was singing didn’t even remotely sound like the original Beatles tune.

But it was too late. I couldn’t stop now. I just prayed that the sound was getting lost in the rafters of the plane. But I definitely saw some confused looks that said, “I think I’ve heard these lyrics before… but that sounds like a bunch of random notes”

When I finished the botched up rendition, there was polite but pitiful round of applause. I heard one “whoop!” then everyone turned back to his or her various devices. Probably sending the video to a friend with the caption: “look at this crazy lady on my plane!”

The darling couple welcomed me back to our row and said, "Oh you're so brave!"

Immediately after I sat down, the steward came rushing up the isle, handed me a cookie and with both awe and sympathy said, "You earned this."

Meeting the New Boss

This weekend I went to visit my brother in the beautiful city of Seattle. 

I had recently received an internship offer from a Seattle-based company, and I set up a time to meet some of the employees while I was in town.  Straight from the airport, I started toward the address that was given to me. One suitcase bouncing along the stones in one hand, and my backpack bouncing up and down, following the directions my phone gave me, I climbed up a ginormous hill to what was our determined meeting spot: 

Columbia Tower. 

I looked up in awe. My instructions said to go to the 75th floor. How many buildings have you been in that have 75 floors?   (I had to take 3 separate elevators.)

I hobbled into the front lobby, bedraggled from the flight, train, and hike. Wearing my trusty sneakers, jeans, a 5-year-old zip up hoodie, my makeup smudged and my hair disheveled from sleeping on the plane, I kept getting glances that said "what is that crazy homeless lady doing with such a nice suitcase?"

I decided to freshen up a little before my meeting. 

I went into a really small stall; suitcase and backpack followed. With some serious squirming to avoid an unusually space-consuming toilet, and with truly expert contortionist skills, I changed my outfit, shoes and all. I walked out of the stall and observed my now acceptable business casual outfit in the mirror: a light beige shirt and a simple blue skirt. 

I ran my fingers through my hair, touched up some mascara, and was about to leave when I noticed a mark on my shirt. 

An inch-long blue pen streak, right on my chest. 

Here I was, on the way to meeting a potential future employer on the 75th floor of the Columbia Tower, and there's a BLUE PEN MARK ON MY CHEST. 

I splashed some water on it, nothing happened so I added soap, which then added a large discolored circle surrounding that deplorable line of pen. 

I thought I'd make it better by making it worse: I tried to expand the discolored soap circle so it wasn't as noticeably concentrated.

As I leaned my torso awkwardly into the sink, and tried to scrub it out, a very friendly black woman stepped out of a stall and looked at me, appropriately questioning my stance. 

"I...uh...I got... there's pen on my shirt"

"Oh Honey! That's the worse" She said laughing as she walked out of the bathroom.

yes. it was the worst. 

It finally faded enough so that it wasn't so glaring an arrow to my bust. 

I made it up to the 75th floor eventually, the meeting went swimmingly well, and I got a glimpse of a pretty incredible view of the city.

While waiting for a friend thereafter at Starbucks, I bought a bright orange carrot juice.
I spilled it on my shirt.