Cookies and a Train to New York

I have to catch a train to New York City at 2:00pm, so I’m trying to squeeze a whole day’s worth of work into the morning, I get to my desk early, and without having eaten breakfast I am greeted by the 40 birthday cookies my boss so generously baked. Their beady little chocolate-chip faces are staring me down, even after I put them in a drawer, whispering, “Averill… Averillllll… come on. You know you want to eat one of us. You haven’t eaten anything all morning! Chemical energy… Come on Averill… ”

I give in and eat one.

Ok--I eat three.

Then it’s 1:30pm. I run out the door, chase down a taxi. “Can you get me to Union Station, as quickly as possible? I’m going to miss my train.”

The driver smiles, takes my request to heart. Two U-turns, several jolting starts and stops later, we arrive in plenty of time. Both grateful but now slightly nauseous, I need some real food.

Wandering around Union Station, nothing seems appetizing, cause I’m still a little car-sick from the Nascar taxi ride. I finally settle on a sushi role. Then think, I’ll probably need more than this… I go on an aimless tour around union station picking up random things that look mildly appealing: a Starbucks blueberry muffin, and (I’m ashamed to admit) a McDonald’s cheeseburger.  (also, when I ask for some water at the McDonalds, the lady gives me an espresso-sized cup full... so a gulp’s worth)

Somewhere along the way during this food safari, I pass by a colorful little stand.

The charming rainbow palate is so lovely, I have to stop and see if the sparkles are really magic. And then of course, they are—because what the stand is selling is magic:

Macaroons. Flat, round, amazing cookies, that are notoriously impossible to bake. So refined, so delicate, so lovely, the display is a spread of all sorts of delectable colors—with flavors I’ve never imagined! A fruit exhibit in a cookie stand. The pear (a pear macaroon!) is calling my name. Much like the cookies earlier, but in a seductive, French accent, I hear, “Avrill, oui, we must be friends! You must try me, je t'aime”

So I buy one.

Ok—I buy three.

I’m at the gate. I successfully condense all of my random food items into the McDonald’s bag—sushi, cheeseburger, muffin, and macaroons. Careful of the precious cookies that I’m saving for mid-train ride. The train is delayed.

Well, now I have time to eat.

After the cheeseburger and the sushi, I am stuffed. No room for the muffin. But now the line is moving, and I panic, because I’m pretty sure I cut the line, but I didn’t mean to, but I can’t go back now. Where’s my ticket? Too many things—not enough hands. I keep the Starbucks bag and muffin with me, and toss the McDonald’s bag into the trash, and shuffle into the line, hoping not to make anyone mad.

I hand her my ticket, head down, trying to move quickly, get out of everyone’s way. At the top of the escalator to the platform, I look at my hand clutching the muffin bag, encouraged by the idea of how delicious my macaroo… THE MACAROONS! I threw them away!

I turn around, push against the traffic, cross under one of those line ropes, and take apart another one, all in pursuit of that trashcan. With single-minded, laser straight focus like I’ve never had before, I go digging through a garbage bin.

I find the McDonald’s bag quickly and once I’ve secured those little cookies in my hand again, I finally regain whatever grace and decorum is left to regain. I pretend like the many curious glances my way do not exist. Though I can’t ignore the man right beside me. So I explain, “I threw away macaroons.” I shrug and smile, as if that explained everything. Realizing it isn’t quite a satisfactory answer, I continue, “I mean, I didn’t mean to throw them away. I didn’t realize I had thrown them away. Have you ever had a macaroon? You can’t just throw it away. It’s a magic cookie.” 

He doesn’t understand. He’s probably never had one.

No matter, I have my macaroons.

I have to go back through the line, hoping the lady checking tickets doesn’t recognize me. From her judgmental stare, she probably saw the whole trash-can adventure.

No matter. I have my macaroons.

Safely on the train, secure from any other distraction, I enjoy the slightly crunchy, slightly melty masterpiece that is the macaroon.

A very happy Averill. 

Totally worth the trouble.

I'm Sorry, GusGus

"I think I have a mouse in my apartment" I called my parents yesterday morning.
My mom said, "You should probably buy a mouse-trap honey."
My dad said, "You should probably stand on a table."

I casually mention it to my co-worker over lunch.
"A mouse? You should tell your landlord. Also probably buy a trap."

Resolved in my quest to do just that, I later brought it up again to her on our way home, so that we could stop at the drug store.
"Athletic little thing, I live on the third floor!"
"The last girl who lived there had a mouse too! I think she also bought a mouse trap for it.  She named him Gusgus--like the cute little guy in Cinderella--you know?

Oh great. Now he has a name! And I'm picturing him with a funny little hat singing, and sewing, and saving the day. What was I doing?! I couldn't murder a small, helpless creature. I was always complaining about living alone, perhaps I'd let him be my roommate for the winter!

We passed the drug store. "I'll just deal with it later" I told her.

But then I heard little feet scuttling in my dreams. I heard them everywhere. Every creak on every floorboard, was a disease-ridden animal. Increasingly, I saw mice everywhere: Every leaf that blew past with a gust of wind, fluttered with the movement of a small rodent. Every shadow that moved even remotely quickly--he was everywhere. Haunting me. Plaguing me.

I finally convinced myself that I should buy a mouse trap. The only ones CVS had to offer--black ones that looked stupid-proof. It was structured like a clam:  A hinge on one side and a serrated jaw on the other. You opened it, set the spring to a click, and when there was pressure in the front, the mouth snapped shut.
It looked like once it caught the mouse, the victim  would be completely concealed from view. Except for maybe his tail. In my now suddenly murderous inner-monologue, I pictured his little tail left dangling out of the trap, and as I smiled with sick satisfaction, and I bought the contraption.

With strategically-placed peanut-butter, I put it in the little crook next to the closet by the front door where he last ran. Intentionally making lots of noise--because I didn't want to see him. I didn't want a beady-eyed glare staring me down as I set his own death trap.

Days passed.

Every time I walked through the door, I glanced at my little black trap. Relieved that it was wide open, right where I placed it, but dreading the moment when the small, crawly thing will actually be consumed by its lethal jaws, and I'll have to dispose of the corpse.

...

Tonight, it finally happened: when I came home from work, the trap was missing from its spot next to the door. Talking to my father on the phone at the time, I told him about the caught mouse, even described the little tail sticking out, just as I'd imagined. The deed was done.

Nauseous with guilt and disgust to rival Poe's most heart-wrenching tragedies I went into the kitchen to muster up the strength necessary to pick up the deceased soul.
The conversation with my father:
Dad:"Is he dead?"
Me:"Of course he's dead!"
"How do you know?"
"The trap's not where I put it, plus I saw a tail sticking out of it. What do you mean, 'is he dead?'" what a stupid question to harp on, Father. Here I am, a grieving murderer... 

I turned the corner from the kitchen, back to the closet. It was gone. It was gone. 

THE TRAP AND THE MOUSE WERE GONE. 

Naturally, I screamed.
Naturally, my dad couldn't stop laughing.

I jumped on my bed. Because that would help. I saw him briefly--his little foot the only thing in the trap, the rest of his body wiggling, trying to shake it loose.

Then he was gone again.

All I could picture was a helpless little creature, army-crawling himself with his last breaths to escape. Or all of his little mice friends, vowing to move the fallen comrade with honor, if they can just get him to safety. "Come on, men! Hoist! Get him out of here! We saw what happened to Gusgus last year! Freddy's still breathing!" The mouse captain inspiring his crew to Save Private Mousy.

Somewhere in my closet was a half-dead mouse. I should've relieved him of his misery. It was just trapped there, in tortured torment, for who knows how long now? How long had it been wriggling, praying for death by my front door?
But I couldn't do it. I couldn't even look for it.

In a panic, I called my friend, Ryan-Patrick. Never had a human seemed so manly, so strong, or so wonderful, as in the moment he said he'd dispose of the writhing creature in my closet. But by the time he arrived, the mouse was nowhere to be seen. The trap was still there. mouth clamped shut, empty. The little guy's buddies must have made a successful rescue.

It escaped. It escaped. Now there's a broken, maimed, angry mouse, loose in my apartment.

He's going to slowly climb up my bed frame and whisper in my ears the pain of his little mouse foot, vowing his revenge on my attempted murder.

... I'm having trouble falling asleep.

Black TIE?? Not Black EYE? My Mistake

The Harman Center for the Arts Gala  - one of Washington DC's biggest cultural events. By far the most glamorous and formal evening I've ever been a part of. This year, the honoree was Julie Taymor (the creative mind behind the Lion King on Broadway, the Tempest with Helen Mirren--who was also there, Frieda, and a bunch of other really incredible, largely award-winning things). The greatest perk of my job thus far was the assignment to be Julie's personal contact person for the weekend, her handler.

I felt like Cinderella (or maybe Cinderella's personal assistant.)

The Gala was a dream; the night before was a nightmare. But a kind of funny nightmare, which is why I had to write it down:

For reasons that are unrelated to the Gala, and are irrelevant to this story, I had been crying. 

Really solid, streaming, sobbing, weeping tears. You know, the kind of good cry you get in once a year. So I crawl into bed - nose stuffy, head cloudy, with eyes so puffy it's a struggle to keep them open. So I don't bother. I reach for my phone to set the alarm for the morning--to go see my dear friends, Julie Taymor and Helen Mirren - in the pitch black, the phone is knocked to the ground beside my bedside table. Immediately, I lean over, with unthinking full velocity, pull my body down to reach for the fallen soldier.  Because my eyes are closed, I don't seen the thick, wooden bed frame sticking out past my bed. On my way down, I hear a thud, then feel a blast of pain shoot through my left eye. 

I swear loudly. Because I live alone, I swear again, louder. 

I jump up to get some frozen peas for what I'm sure is a peach-sized black and blue bruise. I don't have frozen peas. The only thing in my freezer is a frozen pizza and those instant meal, microwave pad-thai boxes. 

I run to the bathroom, frozen noodles glued to my face, to examine the damage. How am I going to explain a purple shiner to the first female to ever win a Tony award for directing?! Excuses race through my head.

I don't drink, so I couldn't use intoxication.

Some legitimate considerations: 

-I got hit by a car. But don't worry, I'm fine. 

-I got mugged; crazy people out on Halloween. But don't worry, I'm totally fine. 

-I saved a small child from a run-away piece of construction machinery. I'm a little sore, but I'm really, totally fine. 

Anything is better than the truth: 

I RAMMED MY FACE INTO MY BED FRAME. 

I can't tell the level of damage. My eye is swollen, and pinkish, but was that from crying? It hurts to open or wink, but again--preexisting post-weeping conditions? I suppose I will have to wait until the morning to really get an accurate assessment on how well I need to craft an excuse. 

My do-it-yourself noodles are quickly losing their cold. Desperate, I return to my freezer. Wonder of Miracles, I have an ice tray! Some ice fairy must have put it there and filled it with water, so that in this moment I can have sweet, relieving ice.  

Sandwich bag full of ice in hand, I crawl back into bed. 

The next morning, the sandwich bag is now full of water, but it's still chilled. Both of my tired eyes appreciate the cool, so I share the wealth with the right eye. Thinking back on the events of the evening, I want to roll my eyes at the stupidity! But alas, I cannot.

I do go back to the mirror- one eye cannot open quite as wide as the other; but the asymmetry is negligible.

Wild relief: no shiner.

No need to lie to Julie Taymor about a car accident or to Dame Helen about my heroism. I just have to make sure I don't use the wrong fork at dinner or trip on my dress. Because there's a real possibility I might hit something on the way down and get a black eye.

P.S. Julie Taymor, Elliot Goldenthal, Helen Mirren, Jennifer Damiano, Fabrice Calmels, Albina Shagimuratova and so many more brilliant people at the gala were as amazing in person as you'd imagine them to be.

Living Alone #realtruegrownup

For the next 8 months, at least, I am working for a very cool company that has put me up in my own apartment.

This, my friends, is a huge step into adulthood.

I am living alone. In an apartment built for one. ONE HUMAN. That's me. just me. 


Let me walk you through my first night alone:

I start home, exhausted from a day of running around DC, hair flat with dampness, covered in an inescapable film of moisture due to the humidity here. It's not sweat--it's just... moist. Looking forward to having the apartment all to myself. Officially!

I'll take a shower... I'll relax... it'll be a great evening.

I could get some work done by looking through the equity regulations, I could research graduate programs for my future, I could write the next great American novel. But no. Gosh darn it! this is my first night as a real, true, living-alone grown up. I'm going to just chill.

It takes me approximately 4 minutes to shower. So I take another shower. and I leave the door open, because no one else lives here, so I can. Ha! Then after my indulgent 5 minutes later, I'm squeaky clean. It's only 8:00.

now what?

After 3 episodes of 30 rock on netflix, I decide it would be a smart, grown-up decision to prepare for tomorrow morning by getting breakfast.

My very posh, very urban apartment is right on top of the hippest bar in town, only two blocks away from my work, and no where near a grocery store.
My only options are a CVS and a vegan market place.

I opt for the CVS cause I guess it'll be cheaper. Plus I need milk, and I can't remember the rules of veganism, and don't want to risk it.

Looking at my breakfast options, I suddenly feel like a kid, cause I really want some sugary cereal. I pause, because the little voice in my head--namely my mother-- is reminding me of the evils of sugary cereal.

But hey--I have my OWN apartment now, conscience. I'm a real, live, grown up. I can buy whatever I want! And I want some Fruit Loops.

3 boxes of cereal (not all fruit loops), and a quarter gallon of milk later, I owe $26 dollars! #citylife

So I pour myself the most expensive bowl of cereal known to mankind. Then I pour as many bowls until my milk runs out. It's not that I'm the least bit hungry, of course, but after tonight, those crisp, colorful circles will be mushy Os because of the humidity.
Have I mentioned it's humid here?

It is now 9:20 pm (or 6:20 pm if you're in Pacific Standard Time, which is from where I just moved).

Perhaps a total of 5 minutes of cereal indulgence later, I enjoy the activities on the back of the box. Did you know that there are answers and more activities on the inside of cereal boxes??

9:32 pm.

Am I tired yet?

Eventually I resign to doing something productive: cleaning the kitchen. there's only 2 dishes on the drying rack, I'll put them back in the cupboards.

"eiw! this plate is disgusting. who washed this?" I say out loud, to no one of course.  Turns out, I washed it. cause I'm the only one living here. Have I mentioned that?

Oy.

I need a roommate.

Secret Clubs on Campus

There are some unofficial groups on my campus about which no one speaks. They are underrated, and mostly unnoticed, except by other members. (like fight club. you don't talk about it.)

You walk along, and see another member of the club you're in; exchange knowing side glances of genuine understanding.  Subtle smirks of misery and commiseration. All parties genuinely wondering, "I wonder why on earth they are a part of this club??" Then, "What on earth am I doing here with them??"

You've probably belonged to one or more at some point in your academic career.
This list includes (but is not limited to):

• The Morning les Miserable's --These are the folks who are on campus before the sun is up; (sometimes hours before the sun is up). Not too many students know how early buildings are unlocked, but those of us who do,  know there are several that open an hour before the library. These members have the closest resemblance to the walking dead. Their body struggling against the painful truth that they're not sleeping, when they obviously should be.

• A sub-chapter of this club are the late nighters; who, along the same vein, know what buildings don't enforce security after midnight. 
• The Nappers-- These are over-exhausted and under-slept (like most of us). But this club consists of those without another option; who have only a short amount of time, no place to rest, and are simply no longer able to keep their eyes open. You will find these members twisted and contorted into small corners, stiff couches, and secret crannies across campus. No longer caring about being judged or undignified--it just doesn't matter. Your heart reaches out to these weary beings. 
• The Vending Machine Mealers--When you see someone getting a cheese stick, apple, or granola out of the vending machine, you give a knowing smile, appreciatively acknowledging the relatable lack of time/resources/cooking ability that led them to this point. 

And my personal favorite club to be a part of:

• The Saturday Night Lib. Team-- while most of the rest of the town is out on a Saturday night--at a concert, on an date, out to eat, dance, play, or party--the Sat Night Lib. (lib--pronounced 'library' without the 'rary'--get it??) team is partying with their textbooks and the other seven sad souls also in the library. Not only is the library an eerie and just plain disturbing place to be in when it's empty, but it's an added bonus of depression knowing literally everyone else is not studying right now. So I'm especially grateful when I meet other members of this club. Even though we don't speak, it's much less lonely.   

There's something kind of poetic about being in these places together. Those few complete strangers suddenly become brothers as you recognize a kindred spirit, fighting silently alongside one another; different individual battles, same trenches.
That moment of understanding through a fatigued side glance--"I'm right there with you"

The unspoken bond of the secret clubs; as we all approach midterms, just remember,

you're not alone.

My Namesake: the Averill Legacy

Introducing myself is sometimes a struggle. In fact in fitting rooms, or at restaurants, when they ask for my name, I say my mother's name, "Mary." Because it's a whole lot less complicated.

"I'm Averill"
          "April?"
                    "Arielle?"
             "Avril? Ooo! like Avril Lavigne?" (people always think they're very clever with that one)
                              "Ariel?"
         A few times I've gotten, "Arwall?"
"Averill. Like the month, April, but with a 'V'"

"Oh!" Eventually, when they get it, I will often hear "well, that's a pretty name."
I think so too. It's worth struggling through countless spellings and mispronunciations because I love my name.
But I don't love it for it's phonetic appeal. I love the legacy it represents. I really cannot begin to do it justice, but here's my small attempt:

Averill is my mother's maiden name, and there is not a group of people in this world cooler than the Averill clan. Truly the most sophisticated bunch of people you'll ever meet. Between my grandparents and their direct children they collectively have over 50 years of higher education. Princeton, Harvard, Yale, BU, Tufts, Columbia among them. (this isn't including any of my cousins--all of whom are also incredible). They're the top of their fields, in all their various fields. Art, medicine, business, history. But with all of that education, they are also so humble and easy to be around.

I'm convinced nothing in this world is more fun than sitting around a table with the Averills doing a crossword puzzle collectively. They know every author and every title and every character of every obscure novel; every battle in every war in every time period around the world; every river and every capital and every political leader or movement in every country; every opera and every shakespeare plot. Truly one of my proudest moments in life was contributing one word to the puzzle being crushed by Averills.

When they're not discussing the latest political, economic, cultural, medical, historical information, they are laughing. Whether over charades, cribbage, card games, or conversation, a night never passes without rolling laughter.

"We use our phones to transfer information; we speak into a screen which transfers our words into text; then the person on the other end presses a button to have that text read out loud by a computer--tell me why the system has changed? Why don't we just call each other?"

"You looked like you had a deep thought"
"I might have. They come and go so quickly."

"So what the heck am I doing standing in this dark closet?"

"I enjoyed seeing my eggplant" (in reference to a painting)
"Well, that was a non-sequitor..."
laughter. (that might be a had-to-be-there moment. but I am sure glad I was there)

Trying to get back to my cousin's house after a walk, three sisters were discussing their methods of finding their way back in general.
Ginny: "I look for familiar landmarks..."
Leigh: "I try and go back exactly the way I came..."
Mary: "I picture a string going back on the road..."
everyone looked at me, curious how I find my way back if I'm lost
I said sheepishly... "I just... use my phone..." Laughter.

At my brother's wedding, there was a reunion in Salt Lake. We wanted to surprise my aunt Libby with a party celebrating her newly acquired doctorate degree.  All the Averills shuffled into two elevators heading upstairs to the 23rd floor (where Libby was), my Aunt Ginny called out for a race. Someone in my elevator accidentally pressed up against the button panel, and lit a few extra floors on the way. We groaned and chuckled about how the other elevator is going to beat us. Our doors opened on the 14th floor, and just as they were closing, the other elevator full of Averills opened--they had done the same thing! We reached the 23rd floor at the same time, and all spilled out of the elevators in a fit of laughter.

They're not like normal siblings, fighting over the remote control. They fight over who gets to read the latest biography, or history about the beginning of WWI, for example. "I'm sorry, Len. Mary called it. You can't have it until she's done"

"I've got a new book for you"
"I've already read it. Leigh got to me first!"
"Oh no!"
"She gave me a great one the other day---Laurence in Arabia"
"Wait! I gave that to HER! She stole my recommendation!"

This past weekend I had the pleasure of a small Averill family reunion. I went to visit my grandmother, Louise Averill, who is no longer in perfect health and now unfortunately struggles with her memory. She's lived in Pennsylvania, and I've lived in the west, so we haven't had a lot of time to be together lately. But this weekend it was so lovely to spend some time with her. She's a spunky 94-year-old woman. Try to get her to eat her dinner, and she'll poke her fork at you, or slowly try to pawn off pieces of her meal to her neighbors' plates. But she needs no help or convincing whatsoever to finish every last bite of chocolate ice cream.

"Grammy, I must have got my sweet tooth from you!"

took a very long time to understand that we were taking a picture. worth it. 

"oh, you like chocolate?" 
"Oh yes!" 
"Yup! that's definitely from me!" 
I also get my love of making funny faces from her, apparently. We had a lively conversation with our scrunched noses across the dinner table.

When I saw her first, she asked me who I was at least three times over the space of ten minutes.
"I'm your granddaughter, Mary's daughter, Averill" 
Every time it was really fun to see her light up with recognition, "Averill?"
"Ya! That's right! I'm named after you!"  

...Once she said, "Well aren't you pretty!"
"Thanks, Grammy. You know, I take after YOU. You're the one who started being pretty!"
"Oh, I may be pretty on the outside, but on the inside I'm sinister. Watch out!" 
I thought, "I must have gotten that from you too!" :) 

Three generations

A sophisticated lady (like all the Averill women) she wouldn't leave her apartment without her earrings and her nose powdered. As she was getting ready, I saw some old pictures of her wedding, "Grammy, how did you meet your husband?"
My mom started in with the story, "You remember, mom. You were serving tea to a group of army officers, and you saw a very handsome officer, right? He was so handsome, you dropped the tea! you fell in love right then!"
"I didn't fall in love... I collapsed in love!"

Lenny joined in, "My father, in his old age, couldn't find words in English; but he could speak Greek and Latin, and he beat us all at cards every time."

We went downstairs and found a piano so I could give her a little concert. I played and sang a few broadway show tunes to a very small audience (Grammy, my mom, and my uncle). But it felt like the most important audience I'd ever sung for; I think I've never sung with more heart. All of my cousins are intimidatingly impressive (much like their parents); and while I'll never compete with them in Ivy league educations (or just general awesomeness), I was so happy to contribute to the family what I could. This little moment of music. A little piece of me felt like all my training and experience had been for this time, this moment; to share with my family, my grandmother.

My Uncle Lenny convinced me to relocate these
balloons from the lobby. She loved them.

Someone heard my playing from another room and walked in to listen. He asked who I was. My Grammy answered, "That is my granddaughter. Isn't she wonderful?"  She went from not recognizing me/remembering me at all to being very proud to introduce me as hers.  (Contributing to the crossword puzzle as a close second) it was one of the greatest moments of my life.

For three lovely days I got to re-meet my grandmother. She is so full of love and life, even in her frail physical state. I'm not sure I'll get another chance to see her in this lifetime but I am so grateful for the little time I got to spend with her at all. And grateful for the influence she's had on her incredible family.

As we were talking about her other children and grandchildren, she exclaimed "I'm beginning to think I produced very well!" My mother replied, "Ya, you did, mom."

Her legacy is one I am extremely honored to be counted among.
To all the Averills: thank you for your examples, your support, your friendship, and your love.

Love to all the Averills,

Averill.

The India Chronicles: Wrap Up

So, It's been over six months since I got back from India, but I wanted to add some last minute thoughts, and categorize some random journal entries:

• People are beautiful. No matter where you go, there's something enchanting about humanity. Universally, it's also messy, awkward, difficult, and awful. But there's something magical about the very fact that you can connect with someone in a completely different world, on a level that is not really understandable or describable.  
• Women are Incredible. Overall, the women that I met in India have sacrificed so much. For their families, for their communities, for their guests. We were near perfect strangers, and every woman we met went out of their way for us. An excerpt from my journal: Indian women are awesome. They're sharp, curt. not a lot of warm fluffy validation. they're sassy and quick,  hardworking and nurturing. It's a different kind o nurture than in the states--it's very official. almost business-like. constantly making sure everyone is alright. Always cooking, offering, worrying about food and whether we all have enough of it. They're so genuine and sincere, without the sweet frosting fluff of an appearance of caring. I like that approach. 
• Life is hard; and oh my goodness I am blessed. Naturally the living conditions I experienced and saw, or the extreme struggle of poverty. The rest of my blog posts all basically point out the many reasons I feel so blessed, but I found one more little story I wanted to share to illustrate that point: sitting on a rocky train, vendors coming up and down the isles every few seconds shouting the same one or two muddled syllables of the name of what they're selling. Their shouts are loud and nasal, stinging and abrasive. 'ignore them, averill. don't make eye contact. otherwise they'll stop and try to make you buy whatever their selling'. Then I made the mistake of looking down, curious what aroma I was experiencing. It was a masala chickpea concoction with fresh onions and lime. The vendor caught my glance and held out her basket. "No" I quickly shook my head, carefully trying not to buy into this system which I found so annoying. and looked away trying to get her to pass by. But she held up a small spoonful of a sample. it was delicious. I finally nodded and she smiled. She pointed to various items in her basket. saying with her eyes, "would you like freshly cut onions?" I nodded, "how about lime juice sprinkled?" Yes. "and two spoons?  so you can share?" Thank you. Only 10 rupees. about 12 cents. She smiled. a warm, genuine smile as if to say, "I glad you enjoy these! have a good trip!" I was suddenly struck by how rude I'd been to her. She and all the other vendors were just trying to make a living. an honest, hard working job, trekking train cart to train cart hoping to get 10 rupees at a time. Who am I to be annoyed at their methods that are just culturally different? I truly admire their bravery. I will never have to fight for a living that way. 
• Down further on that same page of my journal I wrote this: I wonder if when I'm back in the states, I'll miss the noise. I wonder if the quite I once missed will feel empty. (When I first came back, it really did. Everything was too quiet; eerily quiet. and too clean; sterile. inhuman. I had more of a culture shock returning to the states than I did arriving in India.)
• I don't like traveling, I like living. 
• I like roots, even if they're short ones. I wouldn't have liked India if I'd just traveled here. But I like it; I like having lived here, having ridden their buses, been in their hospitals. I like india. I don't like being a white, blonde foreigner in India, but I like India. 
• I want to go into my world travels not with the mindset, 'what experience does this place have to offer me?' but 'what can I learn here?' or 'how can I serve?' I'd rather have a life that is small and deep than one that is wide, large, expansive, but shallow. 

• International development is difficult. The beauty in the system of HELP international is that we tried to work with Local NGOs: people who know their own people and know how to help them. Because we frankly didn't know. When people talk about "voluntourism" or "humanitarian aid as a hobby" it makes me a little bit upset. At least the people that are going around the world are trying. They're putting in effort to change the world, even if we don't totally know how. yet. 
• My frustration with going abroad and trying to help, was that I really didn't know exactly how to do so. I didn't know the language or the culture. I didn't fully understand the problems I was trying to solve. 

So here's my big take away:

Lift where you stand (listen to this talk if you haven't)

Serve in a place where you know how to serve; the people whose culture, language, communication style, and problems you understand. Not everyone gets the chance to fly across the world and work in the slums of India. But you don't need to to make a difference. There are so many things that we can do here; so many things that everyone can do right where they are. Right where YOU are.