The Rainbow Wallet Era Debriefing, and Back in the Swing of Things

I've recently made my triumphant return to the tiny island. It was snowing when I left Germany and approximately 217 degrees below zero. Two days later (after an unnecessarily long return trip through Egypt briefly and then Dubai again) I landed at Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam International Airport to 80 degree weather and my lovely roommate's smiling face. I'm back on the beach. I know you are all thrilled for me.

I had quite an adventure. Let me give you the run-down. And this is going to be a long one.

I spent several currencies during my travels. They include (but are not limited to): Mauritian Rupees, UAE Dirhams, Bahraini Dinars, Euros, Albanian Leke, Macedonian Denars, Turkish Lira, and Egyptian pounds. As such, I dubbed the period of my grand adventure the 'Rainbow Wallet Era' for pretty obvious reasons. I visited (not including layovers) 8 countries. I had layovers in Bahrain, Cairo, and Dubai. I was with Tulane friends in Greece and Turkey; I was with (various parts of) my family in Dubai, Germany, and France, and I wandered aimlessly alone through Albania and Macedonia.

Let me say that when I packed for Mauritius, I didn't really think to include a lot of cold weather gear. I mean, how many mittens would one really need on the Tropic of Capricorn? And then I planned a multi-country cold-weather compound-complex vacation from the tropical island. Needless to say, I asked Chantal where I could buy sweaters that were made in Mauritius. I bought lots of them. Still, though, I only have one pair of real shoes, and they are Sperry Topsiders. And boy, have they done some walking. They've walked in snow, deserts, and on the shores of mountain lakes and monasteries. Etc.

Leg one of my grand adventure was the United Arab Emirates, specifically Dubai. My flight left Mauritius in the late evening and landed in Dubai in the early morning. People tend to be grumpy at 5am, even passport control at the airport. Dubai is interesting. In my expert (riiiight) opinion, Dubai shouldn't exist. There is no reason that a shining metropolis should exist in the middle of the desert, even if it is on the coast and there is a 'creek.' The best news from Dubai was that Jean Anne, my big (read: she's totally short now that I'm tall) sister got off of her boat and we serendipitously met at a hotel that dad picked out and paid for. Thanks Dad.

If you ever go to Dubai with a female, they will make you shop. I can't complain, as it was actually rather fun. "Miles, what do you think of this classic-style Arabic shawl?" "Well, Jean Anne, it looks like something a drunken drag queen might wear to a jazz funeral." "Perfect. How much?" Annie bought lots of things. Shawls, tablecloths, starving children, Thai food, Cuban cigars, etc. She also spent an inordinate amount of time browsing jewelry for her upcoming nuptials to Mike. Both my sister and her fiance are super heros. Their family will be a more pious version of the Incredibles. They are also two exceptionally good reasons that I have faith in American soldiers. Annie is a lieutenant in the navy, and Mike graduated from West Point and periodically blows things up. Jean Anne also bought me a coat, which terribly expensive, but that I really like a lot. She spoils me. It came in quite handy in my travels in colder places. Thank you, Jean Anne.

Jean Anne also treated me to an excursion into the desert, which was by far the most fun you can have in a Toyota Land Cruiser. Deserts have always made me a little bit uncomfortable. Something about the possibility of thirsting to death and awkwardly large day/night temperature changes. But seriously, this was fun. It was a roller coaster on rubber. There was also an evening in a Bedouin camp (read: tourist trap). Jean Anne rode a camel. She looked rather silly. There was also after-dinner entertainment. First there was a male dancer with a floppy Bedouin skirt. He called Jean Anne up onto the central stage to dance around with him. She was particularly graceful. After the male dancer finished, a female belly dance took the stage and proceeded to jiggle furiously. She called me up to dance with her. I was decidedly un-graceful, though I think I can definitely say that I also jiggled rather furiously. Not my proudest moment.

All in all, Dubai was great. I got to see my sister and wander around souks (Arab markets). I even had a Muslim woman with a British accent compare her abaya (read: black full body covering for Muslim woman) to a three-in-one robe, sunglasses, and sunscreen. Interesting experience.

I flew out of Dubai and connected through Bahrain on my way to meet Alison Lubin in Athens, Greece. I landed in Greece and immediately made friends with a Cypriot girl who showed me how to use the Metro. I also met a Rhodesian woman. White Africans are everywhere. Anyway, I met up with Alison after much wandering at Syntagma Square at the epicenter of the Greek capital.

Alison Lubin, who is by all counts one of the most fantastic people in the world, showed me around Athens. We saw tons of ancient rocks and I met lots of American college students. Thank you, College Year in Athens students, for pretty much being awesome. We went to the Parthenon museum and saw lots of olympic stadiums. I ate gyros. Athens is a beautiful and old place. At one point Alison and I were standing (in the rain) next to some ancient priceless relic. Alison, who is one of those hold outs who doesn't believe that Mauritius is real, needed some convincing. So I spotted a couple who were speaking French and struck up a conversation. I asked them if they had ever heard of Mauritius. Of course, being cultured and European, they knew all about Mauritius and provided a description to Alison that matched the one I had given her. Hah! It IS a real place.

My time in Athens was all-too short, though, as the next week Alison was back in class. So at the eleventh hour, I decided to go to Albania and Macedonia for no apparent reason, and I set about planning the trip. That was on Saturday.

On Sunday, I took off from the airport in Athens and landed at Rinas airport in Tirana, the capital and largest city of Albania.

I only spent one night in Tirana the first go-around, as I had to leave very early the next morning to take a train to Pogradec near the Macedonian border, from where I would take a taxi to the border, and then walk to Sveti Naum on the other side.

The train sounds easier than it was. First, let me give you some background. Albania was, until the fall of its long time dictator Enver Hoxha, by far the most isolated country in Europe and possibly the world. After WWII, it was briefly aligned with the Soviet bloc, and then again briefly aligned with the Communist Chinese after the fall of Stalin. After a falling out with the Chinese in the 1980's, the country was really aligned with no one. Hoxha was rather paranoid as evidenced by the pillboxes (teensy little concrete gun emplacements) that are all over the country. There are literally thousands of them. He also forbade people from entering or leaving, essentially keeping the country in its own bubble for decades. As a result, many Albanians are a bit xenophobic, and very few of them speak a language other than Albanian. Seriously, though, Albania is fascinating.

Anyway, back to the train story. So it was evening by the time I took a taxi from the airport to my hotel and asked the woman behind the desk at my hotel about train travel. She said that she had never taken a train, and that she didn't really know if they were still running. Great. But she did take out a tourist map of Tirana and showed me where the train station was on it. She said that I could either walk or take a taxi. Having nothing better to do, I struck out on foot. That was probably a mistake. I wandered for several hours and on more than one occasion found myself completely by accident in residential neighborhoods (read: clusters of creepy communist-era apartment buildings) surrounded by local children playing soccer and looking incredulously at me. Though I will say, many Albanians did just assume I was Albanian-- indeed, many Macedonians along the border also made this mistake. Apparently not a lot of Americans wander around Tirana.

Albanians also look Mediterranean, as opposed to Macedonians, who are resoundingly Slavic. I guess my dark hair and relatively dark complexion (when compared to Macedonians and when taking into account my tropical tan) made me look more Shqip than Maqedon. Oh, Albanians don't call their country Albania. They call it Shqiperia-- and the demonym for both the people and the language is Shqip (pronounced Shkeep). This I learned from Guri on the train. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

So after much wandering, I arrived at the train station, which appeared to me to be abandoned. I saw one light on in one booth, and wandered over hoping that the man being the counter spoke English. He didn't. But, I did manage to find out (using complex hand signals and various grunting noises) that the train I needed departed the following morning at 5:55 AM. I wandered back to my hotel, and requested a wake-up call for 4 AM. The girl behind the desk did not regard this as a suitable time for waking up.

The next morning I was at the train station at the appointed hour. It was still quite dark. An older man approached me and said things in Shqip. I obviously didn't understand a word, but could tell that he was being friendly. I motioned in the direction of the train station cafe, which was for some reason open at this early hour, and said 'coffee' in as many languages as I could think of. The elderly gentleman and I then proceeded to get coffee, er, some semblance of coffee as we waited for the train. There were two other men in the cafe with us. Between the teensy bit of English and/or French spoken by the three men and the much teensier bit of Shqip that I had acquired in my 13 hours in the country, I managed to tell the men that I was an American and that I liked sugar. Hey, I was doing my best.

Anyway, we finally went and sat on the train. But apparently, something had been done incorrectly with my ticket, so the evil ticket-examiner lady was yelling at me in Shqip. The aforementioned elderly gentleman, whose name, I would come to know, was Guri, took my ticket, spoke briefly to the evil ticket-examiner and then took off at a sprint that surprised me for his age. He returned two minutes later, quite winded, and with my ticket issue summarily resolved.

Guri was going home to Lin, the stop on the train directly before mine, so we had about seven hours to get properly acquainted. He had been in Tirana at a symphony concert. He had been a metal worker until he retired. He had two sons who looked like me but were twice my age. I got out the cork notebook that my Grandmom gave me for this trip and we started teaching each other our languages. Good water= Uje mir. Thank you= faliminderet. Four=Koter. All in all, a wonderful train trip. I shared my chocolate with him.

I also may have failed to mention that Albania, especially the parts of it in the mountains, are breathtakingly beautiful. Also, approximately half of the cars on the roads are Mercedes-Benzes of various but advanced ages, which pleased me immensely. Apparently it was some fluke of dictatorial policy under Hoxha that Benzes were allowed to be imported. Many of them reminded me of Diane, my first car.

Anyway, I said goodbye to Guri in Lin and then I debarked at the train terminal (read: abandoned-looking building 5km from the town that I needed to get to). There are buses that take passengers from the train terminal to the towns along the road, but they are very difficult to navigate if one doesn't speak Shqip. Fortunately, the ever-benevolent Guri knew some women on the train and told them who I was and where I was going. They took me by the hand and led me to the bus, then stopped the bus at the appropriate time and kissed me goodbye. I love Albanians.

Pogradec is the largest Albanian town on Lake Ohrid, which is itself a very old and sizable lake on the border between Albania and the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia (FYROM. Sidebar: FYROM is the country's official designation due to a dispute with Greece over the use of the name Macedonia).

I spent the morning in Pogradec before going to a travel agency and asking them how to get to Macedonia. They told me to take a taxi, but that it wouldn't be able to cross the border, and so I would have to walk across the neutral zone and clear customs that way. Wonderful. I took the taxi as far as it would go along a road that was not built to ever be traveled (Hoxha REALLY didn't like the outside world), and walked across the border into Macedonia. The customs officials on the Macedonian side were a bit befuddled by me, but they let me pass nonetheless. My hotel was right on the border, or so I thought. It was probably about a kilometer down the beautiful lakeside mountain road, and I never would've found it had it not been for the helpful directions of a cadre of Macedonian soldiers who seemed to me to be very over-armed.

Ah, my hotel. Sveti Naum (St. Naum) is a thousand-year old monastery that has been converted into a hotel and resort complex. I was the only person staying there. The staff outnumbered me 20 to 1. It was the off-season and it had been a slow year, but it was still a strange experience. The place is absolutely stunning, and the restaurant is delicious. There was a waitress named Maja who was married to Boris, the man at reception. She took care of me. They recommended the most delicious things ever. All in all, a thoroughly relaxing experience. Ever had Macedonian monastic pie? Well you should try it.

One day I took a (very expensive) taxi ride from the monastery into the city of Ohrid about 40 km away. That city is the largest on Lake Ohrid. It's a very popular tourist destination and with good reason: it's stunningly beautiful. The town boasts 365 old churches, monasteries, and basilicas. I wandered around the town all day, and I climbed to its highest point- an ancient fortress. I toured several Eastern Orthodox churches and I ate more Macedonian food.

After a few days at the monastery/hotel, I decided to head back to Albania. I walked back across the border and did the trip in reverse, except this time the train wasn't running so I had to take a mini-bus across the country. It costs $6 US to take a minibus across Albania. Who knew? Anyway, I made it back to Tirana and spent the next few days exploring the capital in earnest.

I went to the National History Museum in Tirana, which is incredibly interesting because it was built by communists essentially to celebrate communism. It has a very very nationalist and revisionist slant, but some stunning stuff nonetheless, including a room full of Eastern Orthodox relics seized by the government over the decades. There was also a couple giant sculptures made entirely of guns.

I spent the majority of one day at the National Gallery of Art. Anyone who's been traveling with me knows that I have a certain affinity for modern and contemporary art museums, and this one had me drooling. I wasn't impressed because of the big-named artists or anything of international renown, it was the political nature of the art that struck me. Next to some of the paintings there would be plaques, and inscribed upon them was the political history behind the painting. "This work of art was censored for seemingly portraying a pessimistic attitude towards the future and was banned for 34 years. The artist was executed. The work was found in a back-office of the archives and redisplayed after the fall of Communism." Creepy stuff. There were entire sections devoted exclusively to Socialist Idealism in visual art. A good amount of the works were legitimately beautiful and impressive, while others were just testaments to how scary politics can be. One of the works showed a huge metal foundry in Elbasan (one of the cities in Albania). It showed it gleaming and proud and with happy workers, but I had seen that exact foundry merely days before. It was nearly destroyed, underperforming, and surrounded by despondence. Guri said that it had always been that way. Scary stuff.

The following Sunday I boarded an Albanian Airways flight to Istanbul. I'm not sure how many non-Albanians fly Albanian Airways, but I think it's safe to say that the total sum is not very many. The passport control officer at the Tirana airport studied my passport for a good long time, apparently off-put by the stamps from Macedonia. In any event, I made it through and boarded the plane to Istanbul.

Istanbul is one of the places in the world that I would recommend to anyone. Mauritius and Albania I would recommend to those people who are fine with spartan accommodations and "charming" societal quirks. Greece I would recommend to anyone who enjoys typically touristy things. But Istanbul I would recommend to anyone.

I landed at the airport, cleared customs, and took the shuttle to the Tulip Guesthouse where I would be staying with Ross Kelley, a Tulane architecture student and dear friend of mine. He had arrived the previous day and had already familiarized himself with the neighborhood. Upon greeting each other and catching up for a while, we went out in search of food. We were beckoned into a restaurant by a man whose name, we would come to know, was Fico. He was quite a character and exactly the kind of person who should have the job of getting strangers on the street to eat at a restaurant. He was Kurdish and incredibly entertaining. He also introduced Ross and I to some Swedish ladies, one of which was one of Fico's many "girlfriends." The Swedes had been working at a resort in Turkey and were headed back to Norse country. After dinner, we accompanied the Swedes to a bar. Well, they called it a bar. It was actually more like the basement from 'That Seventies Show' except that it was filled with world travelers and Dagistan, who ran the bar and also lived in it. Dagistan became one of our greatest acquaintances in Istanbul. He was funny and wonderful, as was Fico. The next day we met some Mormons from Utah who were traveling the Middle East. Sara, Stephanie, and Noah (though to be fair, Noah wasn't a Mormon he was just dating Stephanie who was Sara's sister. They kept making awkward jokes about being 'sister wives.'). We ran around Istanbul with them and visited all the fun markets and such. We drank vast quantities of tea.

Ross and I saw the Blue Mosque and the Haggia Sophia. We also went to Asia-- Ross was excited because he had never actually been to Asia. Ross and I also went to a Turkish bath, which I would describe as a spa with a lot more history. Imagine sitting in a sauna surrounded by Turks in a steam room that had been in operation for more than 500 years. We smoked hookah at relaxed cafes and met people from all over the world. All in all, Istanbul was an absolute pleasure.

The next stop on my grand journey was Frankfurt, where I was meeting my Aunt Julie and Uncle Aleck who would then take me to their house in Heidelberg for the holidays. The landing of my flight was delayed by heavy snowfall. Looking out the window of the Lufthansa flight, I was getting nervous already. Once on the ground, I met up with my charming family. My uncle drove us back to their house on the autobahn. That was certainly exciting. Heidelberg is very cute. Aunt Julie was the ideal tour guide- taking me to Christmas markets to sample Glu Wein (hot wine), etc. On Christmas, my Uncle Mike joined the party, as did my Uncle Aleck's son, Chris. Christmas was festive, and there was Turkey, and my Aunt stuffed a stalking for me.

One of the greatest things about the German leg of my trip, though, was the miniature America that I also got to visit. American military bases are in some cases proper American cities that seem to have gotten lost or sprung up in strange places. The base I visited in Germany was a perfect example. For the first time in months, I had a chicken biscuit from Popeye's. I used an ATM and it spit out American dollars. Julie and Aleck even took me to see a movie (Avatar) in English at the cinema on the base. Me, the big boy on the tiny island, got to watch an American movie in its original language in a theatre full of Americans. To say the least, I was ecstatic. The library on the base had DVD's of seasons of American television. I got to watch the West Wing. It was the perfect hybrid- I got to experience America while still being able to experience Germany.

The day after Christmas, my parents and brother arrived in Germany. The reunion was as happy as was to be expected, and they brought me Christmas presents to boot. Aunt Julie, ever the perfect tour guide, had lined up several different excursions around the country to keep us all entertained. First we went to France. Strasbourg in Alsace-Lorraine is a prototypically European place, and I even got to impress my family with my French skills, or rather, I got to show them exactly how much progress I have (or haven't made). For instance, the family sat down to lunch at a restaurant, only to find that the waitress did not speak English. Being the Francophone of the group, it became my job to translate the menus, place the orders, etc. It was reminiscent of my family's trip to China, during which my sister was the constant interpreter. She had much more patience than I did. She was also much more effective, because of everything that my family wanted to order, everyone ended up with something different. In short, I failed miserably. But I did manage pretty well otherwise during the day. I was delighted to find a Reunionese restaurant in Strasbourg. Reunion Island is a French possession about 120 miles away from Mauritius. The islands are pretty similar in most ways, and I was certainly pleased that I recognized most of the foods on the menu. Unfortunately the restaurant was closed for the day, otherwise I would've shown my family what I eat on a daily basis.

Moving on, though, we left Strasbourg and returned to Germany. The next trip was to Stuttgart. There we saw the Mercedes-Benz Museum. I'm sort of a Benz fanatic, so it was important to stay well hydrated for this activity. I did, after all, lose a lot of liquids when I drooled over almost every single automobile present. After Stuttgart, the next trip was to Munich, where we went to a traditional German beer house and had tons of sausage and kraut. Delicious. We then went down (or up) into the German Alps, where we visited a number of small Bavarian towns, The "New Swan Castle" (the one that Disney modeled its castles after), and Zugspitz, the highest mountain in Germany. It was a lot of touring crammed into a little amount of time.

We also visited Dachau, one of the most notorious WWII-era concentration camps in Germany. Seeing evidence of the Holocaust and hearing the stories from history firsthand is a truly humbling experience. I always said that I was one of the luckiest kids that I know, and on days like that one, it certainly feels true.

We made another visit to a medieval town and then it was time for me to fly out. I left Heidelberg and connected through Egypt and Dubai back to the Republic of Mauritius.

All in all, it was truly a grand adventure: the Rainbow Wallet Era. And I still cannot find a bank that will trade me for my Albanian Leke, so I guess I'm stuck with those as a souvenir.

Back on the island I'm readjusting to live as (un)usual. My studies are getting back on track, and I'm having to navigate the nightmarish bureaucracy of the University of Mauritius once again. I'm back to eating curries and daube, and I'm back to cavorting with Canadians and South Africans. It's tropical Summer, though, and my house is not air-conditioned. Ambient temperature in my room is hot enough to thoroughly melt even the sturdiest of German chocolates that I brought back as a souvenir. I'm sure that there will be many, many more stories to tell.

Oh, and here's one:

This past weekend was the Hindu festival of Cavadee. The holy day involves a family member carrying an idol and sometimes pulling heavy carts while walking barefoot towards a river or creek. The act of sacrifice is in homage to Lord Murugan, one of the deities that protects and ensures the welfare of the household. Cavadee was wonderful. The entire island smelled like incense. Anyway, my friend Majhegy invited me to eat the meal associated with the festival with her entire family. I accepted the invitation with glee. Sept Cari was the food (translate: seven curries). In keeping with proper etiquette at the table, I ate with my hands, much to the amusement of my hosts. I can tell you, it is much, much harder than it looks. I am also convinced that I will never be able to eat with my hands and look dignified. The others certainly looked dignified. Majhegy and her family were incredibly hospitable and they even taught me some Kreol. One quirk: the family eats in shifts. The part of the family that is not eating serves the part of the family that is. After the first shift, those that had been eating become the servers. I was in the first group to eat. Having finished eating (with my hands), I went to wash them. Majhegy came after me a few minutes later. Apparently, her father wanted me to serve him. After a short crash course in proper Tamil serving etiquette, I served her family some of the curry that they had graciously prepared. To be honest, I'm just glad that I didn't spill anything.

Sorry for the long delay, but I am now officially back in the swing of things. Also, in light of current events stateside, GEAUX SAINTS! The game will be airing at 3:30 AM Mauritius Standard Time, but believe me, I will find a way to watch. Even if it means breaking into the American Embassy. I guess I'm just part of the 'Who Dat' diaspora.

Photographic Evidence

Tacky Halloween

Thanksgiving!

Veraaaaaanda

Long Overdue Sundries

Well. November has been quite a month.

Highlight Reel:

1. Tacky Halloween party with Mauritians, South Africans and Canadians (yes, October, I know)

2. New and improved lodging

3. Thanksgiving with the family

4. December adventure

"Haha, you look like an American tourist!!" I love my Canadian friend Dave. He's kind of like another big brother. He told me I looked like an American tourist. I take that as an insult. The setting was the Halloween barbecue at the new house of my friend Nadia, who is Canadian, too. Rather than a traditional Halloween costume party, the theme was simple: dress tacky. I showed up in what can only be described as color and pattern vomit- purple flower short shorts, a hypnotic multicolored shirt, and a tropically floral tourist hat. I bought two of these articles at a tourist shop in Flic en Flac. I literally walked into the store and said (in French), "I need to buy short shorts and a tourist hat that are absolutely terrible and unsuitable for any occasion." The salesgirl seemed a little hurt by my remark, but showed me around the shop anyway. The shirt was sourced from aforementioned Canadian friend, Dave. I would like to say that it was part of his wardrobe, but alas, he found it for me at a standard Mauritian clothing store. It really was terrible. Pictures to follow.

Anyway, the night was pretty wonderful with all kinds of food and drink. Unfortunately, there was a dearth of candy, but as the youngest attendee by a pretty solid margin, I'm fairly certain that I'm the only guest that noticed. Before the barbecue, I had accompanied my lovely housemate Chantal to a ritzy party at the hilltop villa of her very British boss. That party was notable as another one of the very rare times when I find myself in a social gathering populated exclusively by white people. Once again, it was a rather startling feeling. After said ritzy soiree, we returned to our house (which we had moved into that very day- more to follow) and changed into tacky garb in oh, say, six minutes before thundering off in the direction of the barbecue. Chantal was wearing a pink bra over a yellow shirt and had her ponytail up pointing towards the sky. Fantastic. Party on.

Ah. My house. So I moved from an apartment in Flic en Flac to a house on the water in Tamarin. This move was motivated by: problems with the old landlord, rodential roommates, and the desire to no longer live all alone (sniffle). My good friend Chantal (read: Italian/South African beauty of solid character and of a good family) was also house hunting. She found the place, a little house on the water in a town not far from Flic en Flac, and we decided to make it our home. There's a large back porch abutting Tamarin bay which we have imperiously dubbed 'the Veraaaanda.' Also, there's a maid that comes six days a week and makes my bed and does my laundry. Once again, I never would have sought out such an employee. She works for my landlord. I will admit, it is particularly nice to live on the water. In Flic en Flac I lived quite near the water, but in Tamarin our backyard is the Indian Ocean. If you think about it, we have the largest backyard pool in the world. Unfortunately, the water is replete with sea urchins, making my swimming expeditions a bit painful. I bought Chantal one of those inflatable pool bed things for her birthday. We have good times.

Furthermore, Chantal cooks very well and very frequently. My eating out days are pretty much finished, which is saving me rupees and making me healthier. Chantal cooks aubergines (brinjals if you're South African, eggplants if you're a simple kid from Alabama like me) with pretentious cheeses. She also makes mean pasta. Wonderful. She also has most of the episodes of Ugly Betty (modern American television) which I have unavoidably begun watching. Not a terrible life, when you think about it. A frequent house guest (read: third roommate) is Chantal's significant other, Samuel. He is the reigning Mister Mauritius and a genuinely nice guy. He teaches me Kreol words and gets in trouble a lot. Chantal says that we are kind of like her children, and in some ways, I guess you could say that. It is also worth noting that I have taken a much-welcome step backwards in grown up terms, although I fear the damage had already been done. Chantal also cooked our non-turkeys for Thanksgiving.

Canadians will tell you that Thanksgiving is in October. They are obviously wrong, as Canadian Thanksgiving is a made-up thing and decidedly fake. Everyone knows that Thanksgiving is in November and that it involves turkey and pilgrims and American Indians. Have you ever heard of a Canadian pilgrim, because I certainly haven't. Anyway, no one celebrated Canadian Thanksgiving back in October because, well, why would anyone? But as American Thanksgiving approached, I got excited. My Mauritian thanksgiving did not involve turkeys, it involved pilgrims (to Mecca) and Indians (but not the American kind).

Leah, my one real American friend in Mauritius, suggested that we create a Mauritian Thanksgiving feast and Chantal, being an organizer to the core, took the bull by the horns. After a search for turkey proved fruitless (incidentally, pumpkins were notably absent from Halloween. Sigh) Chantal acquired two chickens from her mother's butcher. This past Thursday, the game was on. Leah came over armed with internet recipes for traditional American favorites and we went to the grocery store to see what kind of homestyle we could drum up. Chantal took a half-day off from work and went to her mother's house (Chantal's mother, a budding and talented visual artist, lives twenty minutes away from our house in a remote seaside subdivision referred to by us only as 'far far away') to cook chickens and concoct other, less American, but more healthy holiday dishes.

Meanwhile, Leah and I were wandering the aisles of the local grocery store with a sense of befuddlement. There are so many things that are unavailable in Mauritius that one would never think to miss until confronted with them on a Thanksgiving shopping list. For example, there were no French's fried onions for green bean casserole to be found, nor was there any stove top stuffing, nor, for that matter, was there any celery to put in our own makeshift stuffing. We made questionable substitutions. 'No celery? I bet green apples would work just fine. No fried onions? Well we can just fry those ourselves. No sweet potatoes? Ah, let's just get squash.' At the end of the shopping excursion, we somehow had managed to acquire most ingredients necessary for a resoundingly fake but still endearingly familiar Thanksgiving feast.

We returned home and began cooking. It is worth noting that neither of us have any notable culinary experience, but Leah's a girl and much smarter than me so she took the reins. Oh, and we also found salsa at the grocery story, which we were initially quite excited about. Upon tasting, though, we found that it tastes much less like salsa and much more like curry. Sad, really. Anyway, I set about chopping onions to fry. There were tears in my eyes, sentimental onion tears. And in the end we ran out of time so I just grilled with onions with some chicken bouillon and we mixed them in with the green beans. Still tasty, but certainly not traditional green bean casserole. Furthermore, the squash casserole did turn out as a pretty good substitute for sweet potato. When looking for marshmallows, though, we only found packages that contained colored and flavored puffs of delicious. We bought the packages, picked out the white ones, and gave the colored ones to Sam. It worked out well.

In the night time, the entire family (read: most of my friends in Mauritius and a few of Leah's) came to the veraaaanda for a hearty meal. I even said the blessing like my dad usually does. Ah, so sentimental. We ate. And ate. At one point I excitedly got on my computer to check American football scores, but then realized that I was ten hours in the future and the games hadn't even started yet. Oh well. Roll Tide, by the way. And Geaux Saints. Both teams are having perfect seasons (knock on wood) and I'm 10,000 miles away. Awesome.

Also, the wood I just knocked on is located in a Sheraton in Dubai. That's right, I'm on vacation from vacation. I've tearfully left the tropical island for a month to pursue a grandiose and exorbitantly expensive compound vacation in Dubai, Greece, Turkey, and Germany. The first leg is Dubai where I will be meeting my sister in a mere matter of hours. Thursday morning I board a plan bound via Bahrain for Greece, where I will meet up with Alison Lubin and company of Tulane University social and academic notoriety. After that, I will kill five days taking buses and trains and possibly boats around Southeastern Europe in whatever direction tickles my fancy and hopefully in a manner so as to conserve as many dirhams, lira, rupees, euros, dollars or other monetary units as possible. After said whimsy jaunt I will rendezvous with Ross Kelley, also of Tulane, in Istanbul for some cheesy tourism. On the 20th of December, I'll hop a Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt and then a train to Heidelburg where I will meet up with my family and celebrate things. On January 5th, after flights from Frankfurt to Cairo to Dubai to Mauritius, I will be home (well, tropically speaking) once again.

I tell my father all the time, but he never seems to believe me: It is unimaginably difficult to be me. I live in tropical paradise, vacation in exotic locales, and have someone else to do my laundry. Hard life indeed.

Spotted: Hare Krishna priest staying with my neighbors. Place of birth: Nashville, Tennessee. My friends said that he talks very slow. They have absolutely no idea.

Tiny island: 1; Big boy: 0 (Or, the Taste of Defeat)

There is a high probability that at this very moment, Mauritian postal workers are eating my candy, but I'll explain that a little later on.

Last weekend was Divali. It's a Hindu festival wherein families decorate their houses with lights and hand out sweets to friends, family, neighbors, and the errant curious (and hungry) American. Think of Christmas time, but the sweets are Indian and the lights generally don't include Santa Clause, although I did see one reindeer.

Furthermore, it's been Mauritian mid-term season. I've been furiously studying and have been continuously stressed. I also found out that one of my classes is a semester course- not a year course like I'd thought. That means that I have to sit for an exam in December. Normally that would not pose a problem, except that last week I bought a plane ticket to Dubai for the end of November/beginning of December so that I could meet a member of my immediate family. This trip falls directly in the middle of scheduled exams. I'm not pleased, nor am I sure of what exactly will happen. I also found out that apparently 40% is a passing grade at the University of Mauritius and that 70% is quite a good grade. I rattled off an e-mail to Tulane. Apparently my grades won't transfer at face value, but it still makes me nervous. If I don't get into graduate school because my American Literature course at the University of Mauritius kills my GPA, I may go postal. Don't worry, I'm giving it my best.

Oh, and speaking of going postal.

My mom mailed me a package full of candy about a month ago now. The exact arrival-in-Mauritius date on the package said October 9, although I am absolutely positive that the notice didn't show up in my PO box until several days after that. In any event, I found the pink slip in my PO box telling me to go and claim my package on October 15th. I was instantly elated. I walked the twenty paces from my PO box to the front counter at the Flic en Flac post office. They took my slip and handed me back another one. I was befuddled. "Yes, but where is my package?" I asked in gentle and naive French. "Ah," they told me, "You must go and collect it from Port Louis." Wonderful. I was a bit agitated, because the capital city can be a particularly hectic place, and it's a pain to get to and get out of. Anyway, I boarded a bus for Port Louis and went to the main post office, or, what I thought was the main post office. Long ago when I was trying to rent my post office box in the first place, I was sent to this post office (and indeed, back into the darkened and drippy bowels of it) to discuss my life with a man whose last human contact must have been pre-Mauritian independence, before he finally agreed to rent me the box.

Anyway, still feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and excited at the prospect of home things, I arrived at the post office and presented my slip. I was immediately told that I had come to the wrong post office and that I should go to the waterfront to the Postal Museum to collect my package. I set off in that direction, becoming less excited and more annoyed with every passing step. That post office turned out to also be the wrong one, and so after another set of directions, I finally arrived at the parcel center for the Mauritian Post. It was, well, a warehouse. It's where international packages go. To die. I presented my slip again, and was this time told to take a seat and wait. After 20 minutes, I was called to the counter. They had to find my package in the dark recesses of the Mauritian postal abyss. Anyway, I was taken to a counter where they opened the package in front of me. My feelings of elation returned as Skittles, home-made Halloween mix, and other assorted American delights spilled onto the counter in front of me.

My excitement died almost immediately. The man said to me in English that, as the contents were perishable, they would have to be retained by the Post and sent through an inspector who would then clear them for delivery. I think that the man mistook my look of supreme disappointment and instant melancholy for a lack of comprehension, because he immediately repeated his statement in French, thinking that maybe he had chosen the wrong language. Hearing it a second time only hurt that much more. Anyway, the man told me not to cry and that I would probably receive my package the following week and that they would be kind enough to forward it to the Post Office in Flic en Flac so that I wouldn't have to return to Port Louis. Let's do a quick tabulation: that makes four separate post offices in two different cities and no fewer than six different postal workers.

I had seen the promised candies, but was not allowed to indulge. I was glad though, that the man let me take the note that my mom had written and stuck inside the package. He told me not to worry- I would be reunited with the sweetened essence of America soon enough. All the next week I went to my PO box every day waiting for my package to arrive. Yesterday, that is, the 26th of October, I finally received word via a teensy scrap of blue paper that my package had arrived.

That the slip was teensy is particularly salient to this narrative. Maybe I haven't mentioned this before, but my PO box, either by pure coincidence or due to a mean sense of humor on the part of the postal worker who assigned it to me, is on the tallest row of PO boxes. I mean, I'm a tall guy. It's part of my identity. Anyway, even I, who tower above the average Mauritian, must reach my arms well above my head to feel inside the box. Seeing inside it would require a step ladder. So checking my mail is really much more of a tactile exercise than I had ever imagined. Anyway, it was only after desperate feeling around the box and painful arm and shoulder extending that I finally got my hands on the aforementioned teensy slip of paper. It is for that reason that I cannot state with any certainty when that teensy slip of paper arrived. Cruel fate.

Anyway, I went to claim the package, feeling falsely triumphant once again in the candy saga. The man at the counter asked me for 106 rupees. I asked why. He told me that it was customs duties. I was a bit frustrated- the man at the parcel office had estimated the value of the contents of the package at 200 rupees. Over 50% customs duty on candy? But fine. I was willing to pay it. The problem was that I didn't have 106 rupees on my person. I would have to return the next day.

The next day, October 27, was today. I showed up again, this time cautiously optimistic, with exactly 106 rupees in hand. I presented the slip to the post man. I could almost taste the America in my mouth. "381 rupees," the man said to me. "Excuse me?" I said. He repeated the sum. I instantly exploded. It's been a rough couple of weeks.

Apparently when I went to collect the package yesterday, the man hadn't noticed that it had been two weeks since the package had arrived in Mauritius. I was expected to pay a demurrage fee that accumulates according to the number of days they'd been holding my package, including days during which the Post doesn't operate. I asked to speak to someone else. I was given a phone number of a bureaucrat in some postal cavern somewhere in Port Louis. We talked for a while. The man told me that he sympathized, and that even though I had attempted to pick up the package well within two weeks' time, I was still expected to pay the fee- the fee that amounted to almost double the value of the parcel. He told me that he would waive the fine if he could, but for that I would have to talk to his boss- someone he kept calling the "Mauritian Postmaster General." I declined the phone number, by this time so frustrated that I could feel my body radiating acidic heat back at the tropical sun.

I went back to the man at the front desk. "I believe that this post office is holding a package for me. Please throw it away." I had to repeat it several times in both comprehensible languages until he understood. Yes, I accepted defeat. It does seems ludicrous that after all of that time and effort that I should be unable to collect my morsels of home. And I could have just paid the fine(s) and gotten the candy. I almost regret what I did, except that I can buy candy here. Indeed, I bought a lot of it so that I could eat my feelings surrounding the entire postal ordeal. And I'll have my whole life (probably) to eat America. It was the thought of my parents that mattered to me, and I did get their note out of the package. In the end, after talking to a slew of postal workers and failing several times to get my grubby paws on some candy corn, I just had to stop playing their game. Tropical bureaucracy, though charming, can have a seriously sour taste to it. I didn't make them destroy the package in front of me, and I know that they are aware of the contents. It is highly probable that Mauritian postmen are eating my candy. I hope they enjoy it, really. America is too delicious to waste.

Oh man, though, I do miss candy corn.

Grown-Uppery?

I went swimming today with my swim goggles and my blue bathing suit that I stole from my dad the night before I left. Sorry, Dad. Anyway, at one point I just slipped under the water and tried to hold myself in place against the current. Then I noticed a small tropical fish that was electric blue, shimmery silver, and neon yellow. It was probably five or six inches long, 2 inches tall (deep?) and really skinny. Anyway, it swam right up to me and looked me in the eye. I imagine it was thinking, "My, you don't look Mauritian. Are you European?." It was obviously not thinking, "You are huge and potentially a threat to my well-being." This I know because it didn't try to swim away from me, even when I reached my hand out to it. It is possible that it was blinded by the reflection of the sun off of my still-comparatively-pasty skin. Surreal experience. I then stepped on another sea urchin. They're a serious menace. I'm alerting the American Embassy.

On a series of unrelated notes, my dad keeps calling me an adult. I really wish he would stop doing that. Also, the more that I ponder life and how it goes, the more (and less) I understand Peter Pan. Or that Toys-R-Us giraffe.

Anecdote: It was a Friday night and I was sitting on the beach with a group of my friends here in Flic en Flac. We had seen the sunset (woah!), and I was beginning to think it might be time for a short nap before the soirees of the nighttime. After all, the coconuts are ripening and delicious libations might ensue. My beautiful German friend Bettina told me that she was going home. I asked why. Confused by my confusion, she said (best read with a moderate German accent), "Well, I must go into work tomorrow morning at 8 o'clock because we have a new employee that is not capable of running the business herself yet and the only other employee qualified to supervise her has a family commitment." My response to her was almost automatic. "Oh," I said, "You real people with your real people things to do." Bettina's job title is Marketing Executive, unless I'm mistaken. I don't have a real job- much less one with a fancy and rather intimidating title.

At the time I guess I didn't think much of it, but in retrospect, I guess I've been dwelling on just what exactly constitutes 'real peopledom.' Surely I am in no way qualified for the land of grown ups, and yet I find myself surrounded by them and increasingly consumed with the drudgery (and non-drudgery) (mostly the drudgery) of 'grown-uppery.'

So what exactly is grown-uppery? Having put much thought into the matter recently when I should've been putting much thought into economics or literature, I feel that I have reached a working definition for myself. From what I can gather, grown-uppery is a two-tiered achieved status. The bottom tier and the most obvious is comprised primarily of the trappings associated with such an advanced status. These trappings include things like: cooking, cleaning, washing, and bill-paying for oneself; jobs and consequently job titles and supposedly salaries; company cars; bluetooth headsets; "benefits;" deeply committed spousal, quasi-spousal, or anti-spousal relationships; and last but perhaps most illustrative, kitchens complete with stocked spice racks. Not kidding about that one. It's important.

The other tier gets tricky. My dad used to tell me that it was his job to ensure that one day I would be 'a man.' In fact, he still tells me this. Sure he might want me to know how to change oil in cars and to be able to tile and grout (I have a little bit of experience with that one, don't I, Dad?), but what he really means is different. He wants me to know and to do 'the right thing.' I'm working on it, Dad, I promise. This is very closely related to what I consider the more complicated tier of grown-uppery. 'Real people' have responsibilities; they have deep emotional commitments; they have life-stories; they have life directions (or none, but either way, the choice is theirs); and they have cultivated tastes. Maybe those tastes lead to spice racks. I guess us adolescents can't appreciate basil or coriander. Coincidentally enough, I have a 'real person' friend here whose job title is "Export Manager" for a culinary essential oils spices and condiments company. Yeah, I don't really know what that means, either, but it's very grown-upperish, isn't it? You should see her spice rack. Real people also interact with other real people in a way that adolescents and children (quasi-people?) never could. The mutual status seems to make real people equal to each other.

We quasi-people do have some things going for us. We don't have real jobs and we don't necessarily need serious life directions. We get to move to African islands for a year and live on the beach. We get to order take out. We get Summer jobs at tea rooms and parents (and big brothers and sisters) on the other end of telephone lines to tell us what we should do when we can't figure it out ourselves. Some of us watched our older siblings turn into real people, and we're just sitting back and waiting for the verdict before we take the leap ourselves. I always did like the limbo. All in all, I like quasi-personhood. If I could keep the accouterments of the quasi people while gaining all that emotional maturity mumbo jumbo, I'd go for it.

As you can probably tell, I have a rather mystified vision of adulthood- I obviously don't even like calling it adulthood as that doesn't seem enigmatic enough. In any event, on an increasing number of days per week, my life looks a lot like grown-uppery. I have a few of the basics covered (bills, laundry, cooking, etc), and the other things are developing daily. I can't comment on my own emotional maturity, but I can say that I'm doing my best to work that out.

I had a very heated discussion with my landlord today over some things he was supposed to fix but hasn't. It was the first time in my life when I have actually stood up to a 'real person.' You could (if you're Southern) say that I gave him a 'talking to.' It was an awkward feeling, first because I don't like getting angry, but secondly because for the first time, I felt entitled to interact with a 'real person' on an equal plane. I felt guilty afterwards. Don't get me wrong, I don't think arguing with landlords is necessarily a marque of grown-uppery, but standing up to real people might be. I don't live in real peopledom, but I might just be inching (dangerously) closer. I don't have a spice rack, though. That I'll have to earn.

Also, Happy Birthday Mom and Annie. You guys are wunderbar.

Creole words of the day: Kuyon: idiot. Ti garson: little boy. [Edit: Cotomili: Coriander]

Melanin Deficiency and Tropical Miscellany

Firstly, I've come up with a vaguely comprehensive list of 'basic necessities' unavailable in Mauritius:

1. Pandora.com

2. Hulu.com

3. iTunes (I cheat by using an American debit card)

4. nbc.com, abctv.com, etc

5. Televised American football (don't worry, I'm keeping up with the Crimson Tide and the Saints online. I'm also naturally keeping track of the Green Wave, but it gets hard to focus on my computer screen through my TEARS!) (Still though, ROLL WAVE!)

6. Barbecued Shrimp/ Pralines/ Fried Green Tomatoes

7. My parents

8. Bruff (Tulane dining hall)

9. PJ's coffee

Secondly, I've bought swim goggles and can be found any day of the week at the beach of Flic en Flac, swimming stupidly around, gazing in amazement at exotic marine life, and stepping on sea urchins. Oh, that's important. As far as I can tell, they're aren't really jelly fish in Mauritius, but the beaches are inundated with sea urchins that are little and black and hide under plants. They are absolutely no fun to step on. Dad says that they are good to eat. Does anyone know how to say, 'barbecued sea urchin' in Creole? I'm also slowly developing a tan. Woah, I know. Don't get too excited- there's only so dark you can go when you start out as white as a bleached sugar cookie. Does anyone know how to say 'melanin deficiency' in Creole?

Speaking of Creole, I've started to learn a bit of the local language (as much as I can get anyone to teach me). I've obviously started by learning the phrases that I predict I will use the most. Mo envi dormi (I want to sleep) Mo pou manze (I'm going to eat) Mo pa touriste (I'm not a tourist). etc. I also obviously know the cuss words.

And speaking of melanin deficiency, allow me to reflect about the 'study' part of my study abroad. As previously mentioned, I have four courses this semester. They are: Disadvantaged Populations and Intercultural Social Work, the Mauritian Economy I, 20th Century American Literature, and the Sociology of Migration. Each of them is defying expectations as the semester goes on. Oh, and since when is it October (well, nearly).

I'd like to discuss primarily the social work class. As I said, it is composed mainly of professionals in the field of social work: the vast majority are married, most have children, more than half are women, and none of them are white. Recent discussions about racism and sexism, therefore, have been particularly enlightening. An anecdote: last Wednesday I was headed to class by bus. It was early morning. I was cranky. I waited for my first bus, as I do every morning, on the beach. This was very nice, except that it was cold (read: it was in no way cold, but it was windy and I longed for a sweater). The first bus ride was uneventful enough, punctuated by my most recent iPod playlist and bouts of snoozing. I arrived in Quatre Bornes to change buses as per normal, and then things went horribly awry. I waited for my next bus for much longer than normal, to start with. Then, when one finally did arrive, a curious thing happened.

Mauritians don't really have a culture of lining up. They, from what I can gather, prefer to push. As a bus approaches, therefore, a huddle of people pushes its way towards the door and waits to be waved on by the controller (the ticket guy on each bus). In this particular huddle, I found myself near the back of the crowd but not last. The bus-goers from the bus got off of it, and the huddle was allowed to enter. The bus was certainly not empty, but it was by no means the fullest bust that I've ridden in Mauritius; it was probably 'standing room only,' but I've ridden buses that were 'standing-on-top-of-at-least-four-other-people-and-their-groceries room only.' In any event, it got to be my turn to board the bus, and three Mauritians were standing behind me (read, lightly shoving me) waiting to get on. At this point, much to my confusion, the controller of the bus put his arm out to restrain me and let the Mauritians on. Once they were aboard, the controller proceeded to close the door in my face. I was astounded. Nearby school children seemed to be gasping in unison (Oh, No he didn't!). Rather than belligerently banging on the side of the bus or shouting obscenities in Creole (as I am now totally capable of doing) and being extremely cranky and late by this point, I carried my wounded foreigner self to the next taxi stand and took a cab to school. Yeah, I was that guy.

I arrived in social work class to find a discussion of racism. We were separated into groups to discuss the topic in Mauritius. I always feel bad at group discussion time, because my presence forces the other members of my group to speak in English or French, rather than Creole. Anyway, my group got to talking. The general consensus was that white people, even in Mauritius, tend to be the perpetrators of most racism and the benefactors of the accompanying discrimination. Fresh off of my morning experience, though, and still quite cranky, I reminded them rather sternly about reverse racism. Let me say that I can't be certain that my race kept me off of the bus- it wasn't my gender, because the Mauritians that were let on instead of me were male. It could have been classism or anti-tourist sentiment, but both of those are related to racism anyway. It could simply have been that the controller thought I looked funny. I don't care- I was perturbed and I was very passionately calling it racism! Yes, in hindsight, I realize how a cup of coffee or possibly some candy could have easily quelled my resentment, and that my impassioned exposition was probably more the result of not enough sleep or caffeine than any great moral injustice. I had, after all, easily been able to afford the taxi (equivalent of $5.50 US) and got to school faster and with my personal space intact. Yeah, I know I sound whiney. But you would, too, if you didn't get coffee in the morning.

That being said, the concept of reverse racism had apparently never occurred to many of my classmates. I told them my morning bus story, and they were surprised and amused. When group time ended, my group told the professor that I had a story for the class. Great. A white guy who'd been held off of a bus that morning gets to recount his experience with reverse racism to a room full of non-white adult-aged full-fledged social workers. They were sympathetic, but the roomed burst into laughter more than once during my story-telling. I wasn't the least bit offended by their insensitivity- by this time I had realized that it all was really very funny. One classmate even suggested that I write an angry letter to that particular bus company.

This story is indicative of a major feeling I get in class. Most of my courses (by my own design) concern racism and race relations. Even the American Lit class is about race. It just never occurred to me that I would be studying racism as part of an oft-resented minority and surrounded by the differently-ethnic and differently-religious descendants of slaves and indentured laborers brought to this island by my 'European Brethren' to toil in the sugar cane fields. I'm also a gender minority, as my courses are filled with and taught by women. Not that I at all feel disadvantaged- in fact, I find my minority statuses to be terribly amusing to both me and my classmates/professors. I guess the difference is awareness. I said in class today, "When I'm walking down a street in the USA, it never occurs to me that I'm white. Why would it? But I find that in Mauritius, I'm almost always conscious of it." I'm not claiming to know how American minorities feel at all, it's just a different thing to notice.

Spotted: Mauritians on my bus this afternoon opening windows even though it was 'cold' and raining. I looked around for the reason why: a woman was changing her baby's diaper on the bus. I opened my window.

PS- I've started receiving America mail. Remember how I rented a post office box? Well, mail addressed to my PO box has been mysteriously and regularly delivered to my door. In order for this to occur, the Mauritian post man must look up in his paper work my home address and walk all the way to deliver (read: stick it in my front gate) the letter. It seems like it'd be much easier just to drop it in the slot. Right?

Sweet Home Tropical Paradise

Beach in Flic en Flac- Le Morne in the background

20 Meters from my front porch

Island near Mahebourg

Waterfront View in Mahebourg

Water Altar at Grand Port