Homesick

This place finally broke me down. I leave Nicole, and I immediately become the typical American-stressed-out tourist.

I get excited when I see McDonald's and I crave it all day. I go there for dinner.

A manual rickshaa driver comes up to me and says, "Rickshaa? Rickshaa?" I say no. NO. He pipes in, "Where are you going? Where are you going?" I snap back annoyed, "I just told you NO. Its none of your business where I am going."

They ask everything twice here to be doubly irritating.

Immediately, another rickshaa driver hollers, "Hello? Hello?" I call back, "Goodbye."

Yesterday I jumped out of a rickshaa at a brief stop because he had no clue where I was going, even though he did the head nod when I asked him. He continued to ask three other people. He still had no clue. We happened to be two blocks away.

I chewed a driver out for trying to charge me 300 rupees for a 20 rupee ride. Nicole would be proud of me. I still had to pay 40.

As I walked into McDonald's, a semi-urban 20 something in a torquoise "flaming nylon" shirt stopped me, "Excuse me, excuse me, what country? Where you from?" With a clear answer of defeat, I respond, "America."

"I have a friend in America. What's it like?" I tell him coldly, "Just like this (as I point around McDonald's) except without being hassled. He didn't get the point and followed me in. He sat with me throughout the whole time I ate my Chicken McMaharaja Big Mac, with fries of course. He even had a friend that joined us. He had an uncle who had visited New York once.

Good for him.

Even the food is starting to smell like hospital food.

So I have escaped the chaos outside and sit in this basement restaurant drinking crappy Nescafe, eating stale and burnt toast, and writing my complaints on a fucking napkin (because my journal got drenched by the monsoon). And a baby mouse just came up to my toes. I'm dead serious. Classic.

All I want is a dark, rich espresso, toilet paper, hot shower, and a fork.

Home sweet home.