there and back again

Victoria, Victon, The Shire; the edge of British Crumbling and fused.

A mere month ago my first night back turned me to the dance floor in my Rajasthani slides and decaled shirt of a Tamil heartthrob named Vijay.


From bread on the streets to jackets on the dancefloor.


I got Hot Chip and College.
I didn't get Dreamboat or M.I.A.

Many urine breaks allowed me to hear things like this:

"I totally destroyed her, and I loved it."
"She has the perfect build for dirty, low center of gravity and she's worth it."
"I hate pants too! When I wear them..."
"I love all the tall good looking girls here, I appreciate that."
"I love the six foot and up."
"Guys are all shorter than you in heels."
"Your boobies are so good in that...lets...gooo...dance."

(I am ready, I am ready for a fall).

challo, challo, challo, challo, challo, challo, challie

Tomorrow I challo.

Today I spent the majority of my day in search of a Bollywood wallet, as to replace the one that was stolen from me on the Delhi Metro. At the time, it contained:

- three Bollywood inlays incurred for 50 paisa (1/2 ruppee) each
- an array of used train tickets
- a hand drawn map of where to get shredded salad in Paharganj

I'm sure the thing is now discarded in the Yamuna; a monumental sentiment to how the civilian love for Bollywood clearly stops at attire, where all garments and accessories cry only for Am-Er-Ik-A, usually with wrestling iconography.

I did however, buy pickle. According to the washing machine advertisement on the metro, it seems to be the Indian equivalent of red wine: "gets out the toughest stains, even pickle."

Hopefully Canadian customs will be more understanding of its (now pickled) organic components than the US was when I tried to bring Washington grown Granny Smith apples from Victoria to Seattle. I will also insist on taste tests to those with any foreboding curiousity regarding my garam masala.

Tomorrow; the rest of my Gandhi notes go to Bollywood.