Un-American Girl

Feeling guilty about a review I posted on Amazon last week.

The book is From Baghdad to America and it is the sequel to From Baghdad, With Love and it’s about a dog. Also the war in Iraq and the Marine who rescued the dog and moved with him to La Jolla.

(Hey, La Jolla readers, have you ever seen this guy at the park? Be careful, his dog has PTSD.)

As my review says, I really enjoyed the first one. The second one, not so much. Maybe my standards are too high, because I judged it against books written by writers, not written by Marines. (No offense to any members of my family who actually are Marines.) I’m not being snotty here…I don’t think he’s a great writer. Period. Reviews that rave about what a great writer he is, how clever, how expressive, etc., have an implied “for a Marine” after each of those sentiments.

I didn’t think he was a good storyteller when I read the first book, but it was such a wonderful story, it didn’t matter. Here, I think it does. As I said.

He’s not a terrible writer or anything. He does express his feelings quite precisely. I’m just saying the book could have been better. But next to all those reviews about how life-changing and important this book is, I feel kind of like a jerk. Insensitive to the plight of combat veterans.

My review says I found it “ridiculous” that he thinks he doesn’t have PTSD. What I really meant was “offensive,” but I changed it.

Seriously, it offended me. It does a disservice to combat veterans, like him, who don’t want to admit they have a problem. Case in point, this New York Times article. Except reading that article made me feel bad again, for dissing the book. Like I ‘m shooting down a heartfelt effort to raise awareness. Which I don’t mean to do — my criticism is meant to suggest ways the story could be better told. How it could have moved hard-hearted Anti-Americans such as myself, instead of frustrating me to the point that I’m thinking, “Yeah, yeah, you saw a lot of people get blown up. I get it.”

Tell me more about what it was like for the dog. You’ll get through to me.

See, I was moderately affected by the aforementioned NY Times article about combat vets and alcoholism. Then I clicked through to this first-person column about a 50-year-old dude who had a heart attack. And got really choked up. Do I relate more to 50-year-old documentary producers than I do to combat veterans? Yeah, probably. Still, it says something about the power of a personal story versus sweeping generalizations.

In the journalism community, we call that “putting a face on it.”

Seinfeld the way it was meant to be seen

Yesterday we got a 40-inch Sony Bravia. I agonized over the purchase of this thing, so afraid I would get the wrong one. Not about spending $1300 or so on a TV…but what if it broke or wasn’t as good as another one?

I was looking at a 32-inch Sharp Aquos at Stupid Prices for a very reasonable $469 (tax included). But when we got there Friday, it had a “Sold” sign on it. I’m glad, because when the TV was turned off, you could see a mark on the screen, which apparently didn’t show up when the TV was on. I can see myself buying it without noticing that…or getting far enough along in the buying process that I would be willing to accept such a defect rather than leave in defeat.

Later, my mother made a very good point. TV is a very important part of my life. It’s our primary form of entertainment. (Don’t judge. We also work out regularly in our garage and play with our dog, just not for as many consecutive hours as we watch TV.) Shopping around for a deal and winding up with a substandard machine could detract from our enjoyment of said activity. So I went for it.

By the way, that $40 used TiVo wound up being the best investment of my life. The previous owners had purchased lifetime service, which apparently stays with the machine even if the machine doesn’t stay with them. Translation: I have a TiVo for which I never have to pay a monthly service fee. Now in even less of a hurry to upgrade to an HDTV in the bedroom.

The new used TiVo looked quite unused, still wrapped in plastic and containing all the original packaging. It’s clearly been sitting around for a few years, since the “recently deleted” shows include events from the 2006 Olympics. Quite interestingly, the TiVo was activated along with its lifetime service on my 30th birthday.

It gets better. I was paying $6.95 on a 3-year contract on the broken machine. The nice lady at customer service canceled my other TiVo service, which was $12.95, but not on a contract, and switched the 3-year contract to that DVR. Where I once was paying $20 a month, I now pay $6.95 with a slight upgrade of one of my machines. So clearly I am saving enough money to merit the purchase of 40-inch TV.

What’s up, Blogosphere?

Got some bears in the news.

Man jailed in India for riding around with a bear on his bicycle:

That’s not my photo, btw. Courtesy of Associated Press.

We’re trying to domesticate them closer to home, too.

The news around me is that I’m all about upgrading this week. I’ve been wanting a widescreen TV for quite a while. Don’t have any pressing need to actually pay for HD cable, I just think it would be more fun to watch movies on one of those things.

Eventually I’d like a 40-42-inch in the main TV-watching room, and a 32-inch in the bedroom. I thought I’d get the 32-inch first…but then we’d wind up only wanting to watch TV in the bedroom, so I think I’ll put it in the big room and then when we get the big TV, move the small TV to the bedroom. Pretty sure a 32-inch widescreen will be better than what we have now.

I’d be all for getting HD cable, but evidently, you need a whole different TiVo for that. I learned this while shopping around for a new TiVo because the $5 garage sale one in the bedroom is dying. And really, there’s no going back. I simply can’t watch The Today Show without the ability to pause and instant replay. Rob’s put on a brave front, but I think he’ll suffer without a constantly rotating assortment of Seinfelds in the queue.

I’ve found a $40 “new in box, barely used” TiVo on Craigslist, so that ought to tide us over. It seemed so silly to pay $100+ for a new standard TV TiVo, only to have to upgrade it in a few years to an HDTiVO.

Very confusing. I think I’ve determined that it’s OK to have an HDTV without HD cable (although not preferred, I understand), but you can’t have HD cable without HD TiVo…so that upgrade will have to happen simultaneously. And expensively.

Right.

Then there’s the cell phone thing. I’m eligible for an upgrade! I don’t even care if my phone has a camera in it, and I’m not going to pay $30 more a month for all that GPS, data, BlackBerry nonsense. But I do rely on my cell phone as my primary line. The home line is for business. Call my house, the answering machine doesn’t even mention my name. I don’t mind. Gets me off the hook for ever having to answer the thing.

Is it tragic that I’m tempted by something called the Pantech Breeze, which was designed with senior citizens and the disabled in mind? Big buttons, big display, easy to navigate, what’s not to like? I think though, that I’ll be going with Motorola RZR2, which if you’ll click through, you’ll see that I will get paid to purchase. $24.99 minus $50 rebate = -$25.01, which of course is +$25.01 in my bank account.

Now, I know I have a lot of readers here, so if this phone sells out, or the deal is no longer available by July 1, when I am eligible for the upgrade, I’m going to be so pissed at all of you.

Well played, Nature Conservancy

So a letter arrives in the mail, telling me I have been selected to participate in an important environmental survey and could I just check a few boxes about how concerned I am about global warming and how often do I recycle and do I think nonprofit groups should play an active role in spearheading change, yadda yadda…

The final question is, “Will you join us in protecting the earth … if so, please check the box next to the dollar amount you’d like to pay for your membership.” Good one! Get me thinking about how environmentally concerned I am, and then ask me for money.

Gee, I can’t very well send back this survey that says I shop organic sometimes and not send them a donation other than the 42 (43? what is it now?) -cent stamp I planned to put on the no postage necessary box to save them much-needed funds …

Maybe I would have caught on sooner had I read the address on the envelope: “Gift Processing Center.” Hey, why would the gift processing center be collecting these very important surveys?

I’m sure this will be no different than giving to the Humane Society, which sends me more return address labels, notepads and umbrellas than my $15 donation was worth, in the effort to get me to give more.

Guess I’ve changed my tune since I blogged about this quite angrily in 2004. I do so enjoy those return address labels.

Little tearful

Here’s someone who was unhappier than we were to be on the extremely crowded Kangra Valley Rail.


You have to click to see the larger picture, to really get a good look at those welling-up tears.

Here’s another unhappy traveler, although she seems more annoyed than anything:


Don’t know why I felt better, having documented their discomfort … but I did.

More pictures here, as we find peace in Little Lhasa.

Flashing back (cue whoosing sound from Lost)

Remember when I called Delhi hell on earth?


I sorta meant it. I’ve finally gotten around to editing my Mumbai (Bombay) and Delhi photos, and I think the reason it took me so long is that I feel conflicted about those captured moments. That was about the point the trip turned around, and our days became more unpleasant than they weren’t. (Excepting Dharamsala.)

It makes me sad to listen to Rob describe the trip to people, because what comes out first is “It was challenging,” and it’s the Bombay/Delhi portion he’s referring to. I’m a firm believer that years after a trip, the stressful, negative stuff fades away and the overall memory is a happy one. I’m afraid that the unpleasant stuff during our last days has tainted Rob’s memory of the entire trip.

I say, “What about Kerala, what about Bodh Gaya … Varanasi? I loved Varanasi!”

Even in Bombay (Mumbai) and Delhi, there were moments that made enduring the other stuff worth it (for me, at least).


The day we visited Elephanta was excruciatingly hot. We got on the hour-long deluxe (allegedly) boat and wondered what made us think the excursion was a good idea. It was then that I coined the phrase, “Did you have something better to do today? Look at a bookstore or something?”

We fell for a scam within minutes of sitting down, and were uncomfortably sweaty all the way to the base of the steps to the caves. We climbed that endless path of stone steps, browsing the souvenir stands along the way, and the irritability fell away. It felt good to be a tourist again. This is what we came to see. Probably didn’t hurt that these steps were shaded.

The caves themselves were fun to look at and photograph. (Also, shaded from the sun.) Security was tight though, if you got too close to one of the carvings, a security guard blew a whistle at you.


In Delhi, a highlight was the Baha’i Lotus Temple. It’s a little out of the way compared to other sites in Delhi, and on the drive there, I wondered if we were going to have the same “Yep, there it is” experience we’d had earlier at the Rajghat memorial to Gandhi.

Oh, no. Not to oversell it, but it’s like Michelangelo’s David. You think you’ve already seen it in the figurines and posters all over Florence, but when you’re standing before it, it’s magnificent.

I’m proud to note that this is the second of the seven (at press time) existing Baha’i Temples that I have visited. The first was circa 1994 in Wilmette, Ill. Next stop, Samoa.

I don’t want to do my laundry

I literally have been losing sleep (people use that expression figuratively, don’t they?) over a couple of issues regarding my house. One involves the permitting for a large accessory building to accommodate the garageful of martial arts equipment currently preventing me from parking my car in the garage. In an unexpected development, I was the more distressed to discover that because something was done incorrectly in 1971, my property was not created legally. Technically. And no one discovered this until last week. Allegedly. Even though it has passed between buyers a number of times since then.

I’m not supposed to take Ambien (the generic equivalent, actually) more than 4 nights in a row, which is a problem, because when I don’t take it, I wake up at 2 or 3 and can’t fall back asleep, worrying about this crap, which I know will sort itself out. But it’s the sorting out of it is that’s creating the stress.

I won’t bore you with the vagaries of homeownership. Instead, I will regale you with the story of my washing machine.

It came with the house and had been making funny noises during the spin cycle for a while. During the first post-India load of laundry I attempted, the thing quit. Today, three weeks from my first call to The Maytag Man (now apparently The Whirlpool Man), I was able to do laundry again in my own home. Tell me again why I complained about it taking so long? Rob’s mom had been generously doing our laundry for us … and she folds way better than I do.

It took that long for the subpump to arrive in the mail. So, Whirlpool sucks. Midway through week two, I considered buying a new machine, like one of those super energy saving front-loaders. But I’m boycotting Whirlpool, and Lowe’s had about two models on display that were another brand. Hello, anti-trust police?

When the repairman came today, I put Isis in the backyard, because you never know how violently she’s going to throw herself at a newcomer. She yips quite a bit if I shut the door on her, but mostly she runs around the yard like a she-demon and entertains herself. I sat on the edge of the patio door, watching her, sort of keeping an eye on the repairman, and pondered what other people do when a repairman is in the house.

Do you stand there and watch him? Do you leave the room and go about your business and wait for him to call out if he needs you? Do you pretend to read a book or watch TV in the same room with him? (or her)

I hate having repairpeople over…and not just because I worry about the unpredictability of my dog. It’s so awkward. But then we don’t ever have friends over, so maybe we’re just awkward people. I figured I couldn’t be the weirdest person this person’s repaired for, what with my sitting on the step staring out into the backyard at my maniac of a dog.

Something started to smell. I mean, really reek. I don’t know if that’s what the inside of a washing machine smells like or what, but there was a distinctly sulfuric smell so strong that I checked my flip-flops to make sure I hadn’t stepped in dog poop.

The repair dude wrapped it all up pretty quickly, ran my card in his portable machine thingy and said, “Have a nice day.” Actually, he offered to vacuum out my dryer for $39.99 but I passed. I asked if I needed to sign for the credit card. He said no. I asked if I could get a receipt. He told me I had to call the office and they’d mail me one, because his mini-printer is broken.

I was sort of glad at that point that I’d remained in the close vicinity (that’s redundant, isn’t it?) the whole time he was working, as this was suspicious enough to make me wonder whether he was really a repairman at all or whether he had made off with my grandmother’s silver. Was I supposed to check his ID or something?

Whatever. My washing machine works.

Closer to home

I’m sorry, little blog, how I’ve been neglecting you. That Facebook thing sure takes a lot of time. (Scrabulous, especially). Then there’s the processing of my India photos, which got sidelined last week as I actually tried to do my job.
Here I am, working hard at my job.

We haven’t had many of these beautiful days yet, although last Saturday and Sunday were two of them, and again today.

Both of these pictures were heavily photoshopped, as the sky was covered in spots. Apparently, the grime in India is so pervasive that it coats the internal organs of a camera, even if you never take the lens off. (Seriously, how did it get in there?) Actually, my photoshop skills aren’t that great, so if you click on the top picture of the bridge, you can see little bits of India above the cars and in the sky near the mountain.

I took the camera to a camera shop. (Did you know they still had these things? People used to go there to develop film.) The nice folks looked at my camera’s innards with a magnifier, cringed and then gave it a good $65 scrub-down.

The Sleeper Bus

Can’t recommend it.

Clearly our multi-train journey was not the most efficient or comfortable method of travel between Delhi and Dharamsala, so we decided to follow the world’s advice and take the sleeper bus.

It sounds so easy. Show up and get on the bus. They sell tickets for the thing all over town. Sposedta leave at 6:30 p.m. and take 12 hours. Trouble is (one of the many troubles), you can’t tell which is your bus from a long line of unlabeled buses lining the hill leading out of Mcleod Ganj.

My fear was that we’d get on a bus to Delhi and it wouldn’t be air-conditioned. Not that it necessarily would have been the end of the world, just that I wanted to get what we paid for.

You hand your ticket to a dude who looks at it and hands it back to you. No change in his expression. No indication that yes, this is the right bus.

Other backpackers are standing around, so you ask them if they’re on the a/c bus. You think probably yes, this is the right bus, but the dude isn’t taking your bag to put it in the holding area. A scruffy European dude puts his bags in and the dude tells him, “Eighty.”

“Eighty what?” backpacker asks in his European accent (I can’t remember which, it was probably British). “Rupees?”

He’s outraged. As a female European says, “But we’ve already paid 700,” the dude yanks 8 bags, including a large embroidered Guatemalan duffel and a guitar, out of the hold.

I decide that it’s not worth the inconvenience of wrestling our bags onto the bus for 10 rupees a bag (25 cents). We fork it over.

8-bag guy stacks his bags in the middle of the aisle of the bus.

Dude, I support your moral outrage, but there’s a point at which it comes at the expense of your fellow travelers.

On the bus is chaos. There don’t seem to be seat numbers. We select a double bunk that could be seats EF, which is what it looks like our ticket says. It’s an upper bunk. There are round a/c vents on the ceiling. The bunk itself isn’t bad. A cushion like a futon. The singles were way too narrow but the double was a good size for us.

We’re told to move to a lower bunk. I don’t mind not having to climb up the ladder…but Rob would have preferred the upper. The vents in this new bunk are missing and there’s wires where the vents should be. I say to a dude, “What’s the deal with this hole in the ceiling?” He bursts out laughing and says something to the other bus dude and walks away.

Further chaos as it seems there are more people on the bus than there are sleepers. We have our curtain drawn closed at this point so we don’t know how it turned out, but the bunkless chick was saying “It’s your problem, you find a solution.”

Again, supporting your moral outrage…but how is he supposed to create another bunk for you? It’s actually not his fault, since he’s not the one overselling the tickets.

I think he tried to get two women to double up, and they said, “No. We paid for it because we wanted it.”

I lay there staring out the dark window as it started pouring down rain and lightning, and trees blew like crazy and we finally got going. We didn’t care about the delay, since we didn’t want to get to Delhi at 6 a.m. anyway.

At first, I worried that they’d wake me up every time there was a stop. On trains, I can wake up and pee on my own schedule. On the bus, there was no way to tell whether we were stopped for a pee break or what. I missed a pee break at 3:30 a.m. when I climbed over the European’s 8 bags and asked the guys in front if I had time or if we were leaving. “We are leaving,” one of them said. Probably shouldn’t have made it a multiple choice question.

I made the pee breaks at 9:30 p.m. and 5:30 a.m. While I was off the bus at 5:30 a.m., Rob said the dude announced it would be another 4 hours to Delhi, but I never heard the guys tell us anything about anything. No announcement from the flight deck or whatever.

The bus seemed to get cool when we first departed, but I kept waking up feeling really stuffy and hot. Rob opened our window. At about 8:30 a.m., I sat up and looked out the window and the breeze felt nice. Then I felt cool air coming out of the gaping vent hole for the first time.