The Merits of Pescetarianism

Since my return to the U.S., I've been surprised at how much meat we Americans inhale.
For the entire two years that I lived in Jordan, chicken on Fridays was the norm.
This meant lentils or potatoes Saturdays-Thursdays.
Occasionally, there would be goat meat or, for the annual celebration of Eid al-Adha, camel meat. My favorite days were when my neighbors' daughter, with her 10-month-brother on her hip, would be standing at my door when I came home from teaching, and in one breath pronounce, "My mom made fish for lunch today and she wants you to come over and don't forget to bring the coloring book that you brought last time because then we can play after lunch while she takes her nap." Fish, or samak in Arabic, was a delight; my neighbor would stuff the fillets with a concoction of tahini paste, parsley, tomatoes, and spices, then bake them in a simmering sauce tinged with flavors of whatever was fresh from the fields that day.
While traveling in India and Nepal, meat was a luxury that I actually learned not to miss. When the whole country subsists on a daily diet of dal, or lentils, and they cook it perfectly, you don't find yourself craving anything else. Without trying to, I was a vegetarian in India and Nepal for two consecutive months. Their curries and vegetables are so fresh, and paired so perfectly with turmeric and cumin, that I never once thought, "A fat, juicy steak would go really with this nan bread."
I know Americans love meat, but it still shocked me how regularly they consume it. At least once a day. Sometimes, you even have different meat options on the same dinner table (especially at a Chinese dinner table).
When I first arrived back on American soil, I voraciously gobbled up meat when I went out to dinner with my family and friends. I satiated myself with second and third helpings of the Main Meat Dish at home-cooked meals. It felt good to use those molars to gnaw away at a rare steak or to bite down into a chicken breast.
Then, a series of fortunate events fell into place, and I found myself proclaiming to the world that I am a Pescetarian! My family looked at me in confusion. Was this some sort of mutated branch of veganism? Has my daughter been overly influenced by the baba gis and bizarre hippies she met in India? Is she turning anorexic?
No, no, and no.
My new adopted lifestyle is simply that I consume any and every food except for the meats of land animals. I still eat fish (note to future dates: I love sushi), still eat cheese (note #2 to future dates: I love cheese), and still eat eggs and dairy products (note #3 to future dates: I love ice cream). I have converted to soy milk, but I still eat regular yogurt and cheese products.
I'm proud to say that I've been pescetarian for over two months now. And truthfully, in some small way, I feel like I'm making a difference. It's not just about animal cruelty; it's also about the health benefits.

I recently ran into a PETA booth, and grabbed some quick facts that justified my switch to pescetarianism and actually made me consider turning vegan.* Besides the obvious claims advocating for animals' rights, here are some to consider:

- A USDA study found that 96% of broiler chicken carcasses had detectable levels of E. coli, indicating fecal contamination.
Translation: In every package of chicken, there's a little poop.

- In the U.S., we have the highest permitted upper limit of milk pus cell concentration in the world - nearly twice the international standard of allowable pus cells.
Translation: Got pus? Milk does.

- Raising animals for food generates more greenhouse gases than all the cars and trucks in the world combined.

- Going vegetarian does more to fight global warming than switching to a hybrid car does.

- Raising animals for food requires more than 1/3 of all raw materials and fossil fuels in the U.S..

- Cattle-ranching is the #1 cause of Amazonian deforestation.

- The meat industry causes more water pollution in the U.S. than all other industries combined.

Let's close with a good one from Bill Maher: "Meat is dirty. I wouldn't touch a hot dog without a condom on it."

*I didn't turn vegan. But I thought about it. Then I thought about sushi and cheese.

Why Chinese are the Next Superpowers

All I can say is WOW...this is absolutely amazing. The music's beautiful, the choreography puts American Ballet to shame, and let me just say that I winced when the woman was on point on the man's head. Remember to breathe when you watch this video.

Makes me proud to be Chinese!

Obama's Inauguration: Lines, Crowds, and a Lotta Awesome Energy

Everyone was jealous. "I* got tickets to Obama's inauguration" instigated looks of outright awe and jaws hanging in disbelief. "And," I boasted, "they're blue." Blue tickets to Obama's inauguration basically translate into a standing room area that doesn't require binoculars to see the action and is close enough that you won't be staring at the Jumbotron with a stiff neck.
My mom, JoJo (Chinese for maternal uncle), my twin, and I set off for the Metro at 8:30 am on January 20. Once we transferred to the blue line at the Metro Center, the energy was electric. A sea of smiling Democrats proudly sported Obama pins and American flags. Phebe and I caught the contagious fever, and we excitedly anticipated standing in front of The Capitol, screaming out of sheer delight for Aretha Franklin and Yo-Yo Ma and peeing our long john and fleece pants when Obama would take stage.
Once we broke through the Metro crowd and out into fresh air, we were greeted by throngs of people speed-walking to The Capitol. We quickly followed the signs pointing to "Blue Gate."
Almost immediately, my family and I were hit by a roadblock of blue-ticket bearers. The line that spilled over the flimsy metal barricades was long, but there was no other way. We were pushed into the standing crowd, where the question of "Is this the Blue line?" was asked from every direction and greeted with the response "We think so. At least we got Blue."
And so, we waited. After 15 minutes, the sea surged forward. Cheers erupted as feet shuffled forward...but only 4 meters. Every 20 minutes or so, there would be a ripple of excitement as the line shifted ever closer to the gate...an inch at a time.
After 2 hours of standing in the DC winter cold and moving forward only 100 meters, the crowd grew impatient. The impending inaugural speech was only 40 minutes away, and at the rate we were moving, we wouldn't get past security by 3:00 pm tomorrow. Rumors filtered backwards - "Security has a problem so they have to check bags and people by hand," "They gave out more tickets than the blue area can hold, so there's no room for more people," and "We're not moving because people are jumping the barricades in front of the entrance gate and cutting in front of us" drew impatient sighs and cursewords from everyone.
Several times, we saw people quitting - they realized that it was useless to stand in the cold in a line that wasn't moving and chose to race to the nearest Jumbotron or bar to catch Obama's anticipated speech. The crowd I was in employed a 6-foot, 2-inch man to report our status. He borrowed a fellow Democrat's binoculars, and scanned the horizon. I couldn't see anything other than rows of fleece hats.
"What do you see?" us midgets shouted to our fellow giant.
"Uh, we're at least an hour from the security gate, and then there's another 500 meters to the Blue entrance gate. And the crowd is thick up there - it's not moving at all."
"Well, do you see people going through the security line?"
"I think so..."
After 20 more minutes of waiting and not moving, a rumor filtered through that the gates were now closed. My family and I decided to call it quits; besides, it was only 20 minutes until Obama was going to be sworn in, and there was no way we were going to be able to charge our way through the thousands ahead of us.
As we fell out of line, we found another standstill line...and the hundreds standing in that line claimed, "This is the right Blue line."
We had just stood in a Blue line for more than 2 hours! Now you're telling me that we were standing in the wrong line the whole time? No Jumbotrons were in sight, and my craving for Chinese dumplings was overcoming my Obama-mania adrenaline. We called it quits, and headed to the Metro to go to a small Chinese cafe.
So, I tried. I had the ticket in my hand (and still do), but all I did while everyone was feasting their eyes on The Capitol, Aretha Franklin, Yo-Yo Ma, and the Obamas was freeze, stare at fleece hats, and grumble with the other Blue-ticket holders about how the ticket committee gave out too many for too little space.
There is no next time; the best I can do is watch it on YouTube. Sigh. I feel sorry for myself and for the thousands of others who came all the way to DC from the South and West coasts just to see Obama, but never even caught a glimpse of him. Even the inauguration concert 2 days earlier was better organized.

*well, not really me. My mom got tickets by contacting the Utah senator.

Food around the World

I love food.
Here's what's eaten in different countries in one week around the world. And when you get to Ecuador, check out Papa's smile. It's humongous.

Chad: The Aboubakar family of Breidjing Camp
Food expenditure for one week: 685 CFA Francs or $1.23


Bhutan: The Namgay family of Shingkhey Village
Food expenditure for one week: 224.93 ngultrum or $5.03


Ecuador: The Ayme family of Tingo
Food expenditure for one week: $31.55


Egypt: The Ahmed family of Cairo
Food expenditure for one week: 387.85 Egyptian Pounds or $68.53


Poland: The Sobczynscy family of Konstancin-Jeziorna
Food expenditure for one week: 582.48 Zlotys or $151.27


Mexico: The Casales family of Cuernavaca
Food expenditure for one week: 1,862.78 Mexican Pesos or $189.09


United States: The Revis family of North Carolina
Food expenditure for one week $341.98


Germany: The Melander family of Bargteheide
Food expenditure for one week: 375.39 Euros or $500.07


Italy: The Manzo family of Sicily
Food expenditure for one week: 214.36 Euros or $260.11

Dogs (Woohoo!) vs. Cats (Booooooo)

I'm a Dog Person. I don't like cats; in fact, I despise them. When people tell me they have cats, it's never just 1 - they always have 3 or 4 cats. Dog people have just 1 - why? Because you don't need to accumulate dogs to know that you've found the Perfect Pet. Dogs are better because they teach us valuable lessons, like:

When loved ones come home, always run to greet them.
Allow the experience of fresh air and the wind in your face to be pure ecstasy.
Take naps.
Stretch before rising.
Run, romp, and play daily.
Avoid biting when a simple growl will do.
On warm days, stop to lie on your back on the grass.
On hot days, drink lots of water and lie under a shady tree.
When you're happy, dance around and wag your entire body.
Delight in the simple joy of a long walk.
Be loyal.
If what you want lies buried, dig until you find it.
When someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit close by, and nuzzle them gently.

Anatoli Boukreev's Great Words

Anatoli Boukreev was a Russian climber, a mountaineering legend. From 1989-1997, he made 18 ascents on peaks above 8000 meters. He died in an avalanche on Annapurna in 1997, but no one today doubts that he had the stuff that Gods are made of.

When I was at Annapurna Base Camp, I read this quote by him, and I think it truly reflects what an obsession that climbing can become for some true fanatics.

"I wanted to achieve something essential in life, something that is not measured by money or position in society. I wanted to respect myself as a man, and I wanted the respect of my friends and family. My fate was to be an athlete. I was born with a certain physical and mental ability...I have tried to use those gifts to realize myself as a human being. The mountains are not stadiums where I satisfy my ambitions to achieve. They are my cathedrals, the houses of my religion. Their presence is grand and pure. I go to them as all humans go to worship. In their presence I attempt to understand my life, to purify myself of earthly vanity, green and fear. On their alter I strive to perfect myself physically and spiritually. From their vantage point, I view my past, dream of the future and with unusual acuteness I experience the present. My ascents renew my strength and clear my vision. They are the way I practice my religion. In the mountains I celebrate creation, on each journey I am reborn."

My First True Love upon Return to the States: The Office

It's a lottery when you travel alone - who will you end up seated next to on a fifteen-hour flight from Delhi to Chicago?
A. Silent, sleeping types
B. Talkative but courteous types who shut up the minute you put on headphones or read the in-flight magazine
C. Garrulous types who keep on asking questions or giving you their life histories, even when you close your eyes to take a nap.
D. Business executive types who bring out their laptops the minute the captain gives the "Electronics good to go" speech - they're almost an extinct species in the economy class.
E. Mom with a crying baby on her lap. It makes me want to suffocate the kid.
F. Mom with a calm, cooing baby on her lap. It makes me happy.
G. Coughing, hacking grandpa. I wonder about his past: Was he a smoker? Does he have bronchitis? Is he traveling alone, too? Does he have any teeth left?
H. Supremely annoying types who watch the in-flight entertainment and burst out laughing manically every five minutes or cry at the end of the featured drama movie.

That's me. I'm H.

Yes, I confess to my crime of being one of the people You Fear Sitting Next to on a Plane. But it was my first time in 31 months that I had a television that wasn't blasting Bollywood music videos or horrible Arabic soap operas. I took advantage of my personal TV to watch three episodes of a TV show that I'd heard mentioned in the Peace Corps circle: The Office.
It was hilarious. I laughed out loud, unabashed that Steve Carrell's poker face amused me that much. And who is this Dwight character? Is he supposed to be mentally retarded on the show? If he is, great; if he isn't, great. I loved him either way.
Every 2 or 3 minutes, I'd burst out with a series of spastic laughs, and since I couldn't hear myself (I was wearing headphones and suffering an ear infection that rendered me deaf in my left ear), I didn't bother to tone it down. I mean, how else would you react when Steve Carrell burns his foot on a grill and then his coworker pops the plastic bubble wrap that his foot is wrapped in? What was I supposed to do when Dwight showed up in a kurta (traditional Indian men's dress) at a Diwali dinner and then tried to dance? And I couldn't help myself when Steve Carrell thought the samosas were s'mores and spit them out mid-chew on his plate.
Honestly, it felt great. The Office was hilarious and just the type of American humor that I missed while abroad. The only disappointing thing was that American Airlines had only three episodes available. But next time you sit next to someone like me, resist that urge to slap them silent, because who knows? They could just be enjoying some comedy after years of deprivation from entertainment as legendary as The Office.
Let them have their laugh (or 2, or 3...maybe 67). It would've been quite tragic if I would've tried to suppress any laughter - most likely, I would've wound up with snot all over my hand and that TV screen in front of me.

Good Ol' America

I touched American soil for the first time in 31 months this morning at 5:35 am in Chicago, Illinois. I had to transfer through two American airports (Chicago and Nashville) before arriving in DC, where my mom stood waiting with her camera. Some of the fascinating things and habits that I saw meandering through the airports while waiting for connecting flights:

- All toilets are sit-down. No squatters.
- You can throw toilet paper in the toilet.
- All faucets are automatic, and they all work.
- You don't need to bring your own toilet paper with you to the bathroom.
- People throw their trash in the trash cans.
- There are trash cans.
- No one stares at anyone else.
- Women travelling alone.
- TVs in the airport lounge.
- In Chicago, where it was freezing outside, the minute I was out of the walkway connecting the plane and in the actual airport, I wasn't shivering. The power of central heating.
- Diet Pepsi has a new can!
- So does Coke!
- Almost everyone in the airport was well-dressed - and everyone was wearing closed-toe shoes! No plastic sandals or hand-me-down flip flops here.
- Cell phone obsession.
- There were two Starbucks in 1 terminal in Chicago!
- When people queue for customs and to board the plane, there's no cutting in line. People assemble in an orderly, single-file line, and there are no Bedouin women or impatient Indian men who simply walk to the front because they don't understand the concept of "You were here first, you're served first."
- African Americans! Didn't see much of you guys in Jordan or India :)
- Men wearing plain t-shirts. In the Middle East and India, all men wear shirts with print like, "I steal girlfriends" and "If you like what you see, you deserve to be with me." No joke. It's embarrassing just to be caught reading one.
- Drinking fountains...with safe drinking water!
- Well-behaved kids.
- Strollers. Those still exist? I'd gotten so used to babies straddling mothers' hips or tied to their mothers' backs with a scarf that I'd thought strollers were extinct.
- Snow in Chicago.
- Southern accents in Nashville.
- No Smoking - and people obeying these signs.
- Carpeted floors.

And these were just when I was at the airports waiting for connecting flights!

Birthday BBQ

Swinging on a hammock strung from a thatched roof, I was enjoying a cup of chai on my birthday (Jan 5), pondering whether or not to lather on some mosquito repellent. I was devoting a day to exploring Auroville, a "universal town where men and women of all countries are able to live in peace and progressive harmony" as a second-to-last-stop in India before I jetted off to American soil.
Just as I was about to order myself a birthday dinner of egg masala dosa with a side of Bombay toast, 4 Indians and a German rose to leave the outdoor cafe. There wasn't even an introduction, but one of them went, "We're having a BBQ. You hungry?"
And I went, "Yeah."
And he went, "OK. You like fish?"
And I went, "If it's fresh."
And so I hopped on his motorbike, clutching a bag full of hours-ago-alive mackerel in my right hand and a plastic bag full of charcoal in my left. Off we roared through dirt trails and winding paths (Auroville thrives on ecofriendliness and natural roads), leading us to a thatched hut that was built out of all-natural materials, like most homes in Auroville.
For the next 20 minutes, we argued over how to make a fire. Two of the Indians were from Mumbai and had absolutely no idea what was required. I contributed by commenting about dry wood and some flint, maybe a couple of squirts of fuel from the motorbike's tank. The German guy didn't understand anything - his English was a bit slow. The third Indian was content smoking his joint while staring at the rest of us. And the Aurovillean host, having the advantage of several fire-starting experiences under his belt, finalized the decision by ordering all of us to find branches and break off dry twigs.
Once the fire started, Mr. Joint's job was to fan the fire every 5 minutes or so with a tin plate to make sure the flames didn't lose their vivacity. It took three hours to cut the vegetables and to clean and marinate the fish, not because it was a tedious task, but because the German and the host were involved in a deep conversation about finding the true purpose of existence, one was in charge of the fire, and the other 2 Indians and I debated over what spices to use and how we wanted to cook the fish.
But, as they wisely proclaim, "Patience is a virtue," and at 11:30 pm we all squatted around the fire. A delicious array of baked potatoes, masala-roasted mackerel, and barbequed onions lay spread out on the makeshift grill, along with a skillet of calamari that had oozed black ink and turned into what the Indian to my direct right called "cow shit." We set the calamari out for the cats to devour.
Then, we all ate until our stomachs bulged. My breaking point was when I couldn't even squat anymore because my stomach was being pressured by the weight of my thighs. A mere shift in position afforded more space for some extra mackerel.
We all rolled back, and it was then that I realized how much all 5 of these guys had smoked while I'd been oblivious to the number of joints being passed around (I say No! to drugs, like a good Mormon). In the middle of a conversation about potatoes, the fat Indian guy across from me suddenly asked, "What if there were a round classroom, like this?"
With a twig, he drew a circle in the dirt.
"And what if the teacher said, 'Go stand in the corner. Where do you go?'"
Then he started laughing hysterically. I couldn't help myself. It was a funny joke, and the randomness made it even more worthy. I joined in. Life was...life is great. A fish BBQ on the night of my birthday under a starry sky, eavesdropping on Mr. German commenting on his mission to find The Divine Path of His Life, and slapping thighs with Mr. Fatty whenever he cracked a joke was the perfect almost-ending to a perfect vacation in India.

You're a Doctor?

Most of the travelers I've met don't trust the medical facilities in India, comparing it to the five-story, immaculate, marble-tiled hospitals in America. "Clinics" in India can be a windowless room connected to the "doctor's" house (saw one like this in a village in the Uttaranchal mountains), or a wooden room with 2 plastic chairs, a poster of Britney Spears, and 2 shelves full of meds that even the "doctor" didn't know how to pronounce (ran into here while trekking in Darjeeling). Lucky me, in 5 months of traveling, I hadn't succumbed to any injuries or sicknesses that required anything more than 2 Advil or squatting patiently (with twisted grimaces) over the hole-in-the-ground toilet several times a night.
But 3 days ago, I was swimming in the oceans in Varkala, reveling in turquoise waters that were ferociously strong. The waves were about half the height of a very decent surf, and I was humming doo-wa-diddy to myself when I got caught in a fast one. It flipped me under, and I immediately clawed my way up for air, but the waves were so strong that I actually somersaulted twice underwater before I broke through the surface.
Woohoo! That was awesome! I thought, and waited for more strong waves to tumble me around. There weren't any rocks or coral on the seabed, so I knew I wouldn't be crashing into anything that could render me unconscious.
The next morning, though, my left ear was pounding. It felt like it was plugged - like when you fly in a plane or ascend altitude quickly while driving. I couldn't hear out of it; there seemed to be a bubble in my ear canal.
The pain didn't go away, even after a strong coffee and my last Ibuprofen tablet. There were no hospitals or clinics in Varkala, so I waited until two days later, when I arrived (after an exhausting 17-hour train ride that started at 3 am) in Pondicherry. Pondi is a fairly big city in southern India, bordered on the west by the Bay of Bengal and populated by more than 220,000.
The first "clinic" I went to was closed. On the metal gate hung a sign: "Open 7 am-1 pm, 3 pm-7pm ever day." I looked at my watch: 9:30 am. No use waiting for a doctor who doesn't stick to his hours.
The next two clinics I walked to had no one who spoke English. Moving on.
The fourth clinic was bustling, a good sign, and one of the patients asked me, "What you want?" I told him I had what might be an ear infection.
"Here, no do that. Here only gives shots and takes blood. You go to Bussy Street. 5 minute walk."
Sure enough, as I looked around, all the patients were getting shots or having blood drawn (there were no separate rooms with doors or curtains; it was all happening in one big room with several long wooden tables).
I moved on, and eventually hit an Ayurvedic clinic that a. was open (score!), b. had an English-speaking staff (score 2!), c. was clean and organized (score 3!), and d. had a website (bonus point!).
My "doctor's consultation" was simply a chat (interrupted briefly by him responding to a text message that came through), a look into my ear canal without any medical instruments, and a poking of the area behind my ear.
Authoritatively, he sat behind his desk.
"OK," he stated confidently.
I leaned my right ear towards him so that I could hear him clearly.
"You have tenderness behind your ear. It is a little red. I think maybe you have water build-up...no worries. It will clear in a week. I will give you antibiotics."
"It's just water? I can't hear anything outta my left ear...are you sure my eardrums aren't broken or something?" I questioned.
"No, no, simple antibiotics, and soon the water will clear. Have you tried knocking your head?"
He demonstrated by violently thrusting his head to the side.
"Yeah, but it doesn't do anything."
"Have you tried to close your ears?"
The doctor placed both palms over both ears, looking ridiculously like a four-year-old who plugs his ears when he's told it's bedtime. "Then, you release, like this."
With a dramatic exhale, he released both palms from his ears.
I tried it. Nothing happened.
"Well, I think it will disappear in a week. Also, I see you have hair loss."
I was confused. Surely, I'd misheard him. I leaned my right ear closer and asked him to repeat.
"Hair loss..." He pointed to the top of his hair line. "You are losing hair, no?"
I didn't think so. I told him that my hair has always been like this, choosing to ignore his comment.
I bought some antibiotic pills from his Ayurvedic clinic, and was charged 100 rupees (about $2) for his consultation, aka peeking into my ear.
As I walked down the street, I pondered getting a second opinion. Was it worth it to seek out another doctor? I shrugged off the thought, knowing how long it would take to find another English-speaking doctor who might have proper medical tools...and might not.
"Oh well, two more days and I'm in Baltimore, where I can see a real doctor," I thought. Then, in shocked horror, I admonished myself for thinking a parallel thought to my fellow travelers who constantly complain about facilities in India and proclaim that "everything's better in America."
Within fifteen minutes, I was treating myself to a wonderful beachside lunch of Navra Kofta, curd rice, and a sweet lassi - for 75 rupees ($1.50), and there is no place or taste in America that beats that. India wins in cuisine and culture, America counters with medical facilities and big cars.