Lawrence

(From an earlier trip to the good ol' midwest)

I heard, “I’m really looking forward to Palin’s speech, this evening.” I thought, “Welcome to Kansas.”

Lawrence, KS. It’s about 10.30 p.m. local time and I’m a bit beat. It’s been a long day and I’m curled up in one of my two queen size beds in my queen size Marriott Hill Suites suite. I’ve been down Mass Ave by night and I’m rather thrilled at the thought of seeing all of it by day tomorrow. There’s a store called Stitch On, something about a spinning wheel, something else that’s a Waxed Thing (sells candles, no less), and then the more familiar Borders, Starbucks, even Claires! Tried the best Cheddar and Ale (basically the two main ingredients) soup, and wolfed down chicken tenders (which sadly weren’t as good as the chicken tenders in Columbia, MO and so my quest to match those continues)

A river rolls along silently outside my hotel room and I can only see glimpses of it in the night light. I haven’t seen as many stars as I hoped to in this quiet, dimly-lit student town but then maybe I haven’t looked long enough. I hear the bellowing horn of a goods train at regular intervals. There’s a lot to learn about this town of who-knows-how-many people. I know there will be more to it tomorrow.

Goodnight Lawrence. Glad to be here.

Society of Environmental Journalists, 2008

Wednesday, Oct. 15, 5.15 p.m.
We’re not very far from Roanoke but that could be something my brain is telling my legs to keep them from kicking the passenger seat in the front. We’ve been driving for four hours now so my brain can’t be all that wrong. This will be my third SEJ conference and every year I look to it with a little more anticipation. Every year I make a secret promise to be more social, more cheery, and a lot less of a recluse. The trick, I’ve discovered is not to turn on the pressure; not right away at least. You’ve got to ease yourself into the networking bubble as it expands over the week and before you know it you’re submerged.

Here’s to meeting everyone I missed last year.

Friday, Oct. 17, 6.53 a.m.
Quick note: alcohol does wonders with the easing process! (Hangovers don't)

Sunday, Oct. 19
We're leaving behind red and orange trees that sparkle under sunny blue skies. The colors are a lot more vibrant than they were when we first drove into this part of Virginia. I can relate—I'm leaving Roanoke feeling a lot more charged and passionate about my profession and my urgent responsibilities as a member of this profession.

Every minute of this trip has been a learning experience. I've enjoyed meeting people who are fiercely attached to their land, their homes, and their rights. People, who as several claimed, are putting their lives in danger by battling against power. I've met people who have strong and forceful opinions regardless of what end of a spectrum they're at. Everything I've heard over the last five days has moved me in a way that's made me feel empowered and proud to be a journalist.

Here's to another very successful SEJ conference. It's truly an honor to be part of this Society. Now it's time to get to work.

The Case of the Missing Indians

I was beginning to get worried. I had called all nine numbers listed on the Indian consulate website and not one phone was answered by a real, live human being. (Talk about Audix having to work overtime.) I began to wonder if a plague had swallowed the building whole, or perhaps the cafeteria lunch had done some serious intestinal damage forcing those people to stay “away from their desks” for extended periods of time. So I tried calling the top dogs of the consular services – yes, their phones rang, yes, I heard a personal message introducing themselves to a no-longer-worried-just-plain-frustrated Indian on the other end, yes, a polite Audix associate encouraged me to leave a message, no I couldn’t—their mailboxes were full!

While I was sitting at my desk, screaming curses at each one of those evasive people, a colleague popped by to help. He called the general help desk then punched in his three (not-so) favorite numbers—123. The phone rang, and rang, then rang some more. Audix has quit. He tried again. Dialed the general number, hit the three most ominous numbers he could think of—666. After three rings, a woman picked up. Mellow hindi music was playing in the background, she was real, I was ready to have a real conversation.

The devil had come through for me.

Day 5 after Day 1

Lawrence: A bend in the Kansas River leaves this town of 70,000 people more defined, more unique. The University is known for its art department whose talent has spilled on to the streets--carefully designed sculptures and brightly painted benches are strewn about town.

That's all I have now. It's been three days since I returned and already the trip is a blur.

To Pick Up and Leave

Nobody said it’s easy being away from home. Especially when your head’s spinning and your body’s burning up in a fever—that’s when it’s the hardest. And that’s when even the most self-reliant person feels most lonely.

I wish I could go home just for the weekend. (That wouldn’t be the best idea, of course. The fastest way would be to fly to NYC, then jump on the non-stop 16-hour-flight to Bombay, say hello to a rather shocked family, exchange a few quick hugs and kisses and then pop back on the flight to make it back in time for work on Monday.)

Because with every sunset I miss home more. Every thing reminds me of home even if it doesn’t bear the slightest resemblance to that place I grew up in. Chilly mornings and fall colors remind me of weather in my tropical country; warm summer days remind me of winter holidays in the Nilgiri Hills—there’s no logic, no notion of place, only nostalgia.

A sign that I’ve been away too long. And I know it’s time to leave the life I’ve built in the last four years because all it is now is an empty room with beautifully painted walls, and art that’s unique to me and my experiences. But I’m afraid I’ll miss this emptiness and solitude and that’s kept me here for longer than I’ve wished. Because what’s harder than going home is leaving a place you’ve called home for almost half a decade knowing you’ll never return.