Rat Temples, Guinness World Records, and Camel Safaris (Hindustan Part 3)

Day 4 in India

Sunday, the day of rest and prayer for some and for others, day to visit the Indian doctor, drink chai, and mow the lawn next to a houseboat.

Raleigh and I began to fall in love with Srinagar and with John; John, and his fancy suite for the doctor, his repetitive jokes, and his sweet smile. It was a humid day and John began to sweat through his fancy outfit that he put on to see the doctor in town. The clinic was up some dark stairs and in a courtyard where a few dozen coughing patient patients sat waiting for hours to see the great doctor. John walked in, saw the people waiting and said,
-Ehhh, I will come back tomorrow.

So we left and walked around the village, searching for some chai. We found some- in a back alley where a man squatted to pee and an old woman sat mixing an unidentifiable "salad" with one hand and shooing away flies with the other. Three chais and some fried onions cost us about a quarter.

We then took our water taxi back to Jupiter and sat around on the floor with some of the locals, drank more chai, and then got a tempting invitation by John to "lose weight and mow the lawn". I thought he was speaking in code, that is until I saw the contraption that they call a lawn mower, sitting on the small patch of island lawn behind the boat. It was something the cavemen must have left behind because they thought it was useless. And it was, but I tried anyway. After my intense lawn workout, we had some lunch, packed our bags, and said goodbye to our sweet John.

Soon after our flight back to Delhi we found ourselves staring at a turquoise turbaned man with a huge dimpled smile on his face and a hand written sign that said "Miss Anna Iskan...." .
Honey, our Sikh driver who would be our driver for the next 12 days and who first said to us,
-Honey is funny

Oh boy. A rhyming Sikh cabbie that drinks whiskey and combs his facial hair every half hour. Let the adventures begin.

Day 5 in India

Honey picked us up and took us back to the tourist office in Delhi, where our Indian adventure first began. Sweet memories flooded as we walked into the smokey office occupied by 20 young Indian men.

-Wow. You look so different girls. I didn't even recognize you
said Bilal, our first friend in India.
-That is because last time you saw us we had traveled for 30 hours and we were pissed because we thought we would have to spend the night wandering the humid streets of Delhi.
-Oh yes of course.

He gave us our train tickets and set us on our way.

We didn't get too far. Our 6 hour drive to Mendawa turned into an 11 hour frustrating hassle as Honey maneuvered us through the most insane traffic I had ever seen in my life. The highway was gridlocked with all sorts of vehicles, people and animals, all stopped going in every direction. As we somehow managed to pass a semi that was perpendicular to us, we asked Honey what was going on.
-Oh it is nothing. This happens every year during Monsoon season. The street up there is flooded and only one car can pass at a time.

Delhi is not a small village town where one car passing at a time is a minor delay. Delhi is the freaking capital city of India, holding about 17 million people. This is its main highway and this happens every single year after it rains. Every year!
LA in its highest has about 4 million people. So imagine 4X the number of people in LA with the 405 as the only freeway...letting ONE car pass at a time. It is painful just thinking about it.

After our delayed journey, we got to Heritage Hotel in Mendawa- a beautiful fort with hand painted walls and hand carvings in the midst of cow poop strewn muddy streets. India is a huge contrast with some of its most beautiful creations laying in the middle of the dirtiest surroundings- Starry Night hanging by an alley dumpster.

We spent the rest of the day wandering around the city and looking at the havelis, private mansions, that surrounded the lazy town.

Day 6 in India: Bikaner

I don't like them. Nothing about them is cute or nice or worthy of worship. Not their sharp squeaky teeth, not their long wormy tails, not their cold eyes, not when there is just one of them, even less so when there are thousands. No, I don't like rats. Yet I found myself willingly walking in barefoot to a temple dedicated to the worship of rats, thousands of them.

I am not squeamish or easily grossed out, but seeing thousands of rats piled on one another, running around, napping on the gate, drinking from vats of milk, and hanging out with cockroaches with a stale smell wafting over the whole place, I am not going to lie, it kind of freaked me out. 

This is Karni Mata temple. Apparently Karni Mata was a female sage and when her son died, she begged Yama, the god of death to bring her son back to life. He finally did and allowed him to be reincarnated as a rat, along with the rest of her male children. Now the temple has 20,000 holy black rats running around freely and only a handful especially holy white rats.

Perhaps the rationale to worship them was lost in translation? 

Sometimes when you travel you come across things you don't really understand but can appreciate, and other times you come across things you don't understand and try to appreciate with all your heart but your mind and sense of hygiene simply wont let you. 

We left quickly and quietly.

                                                  

On our way to the next town, we stopped at a little shop where a little man sat with his little brush and painted the littlest painting in the world. Holding the world record for the smallest painting, this man used one hair on the tip of his brush to draw a whole village and two girls on Raleigh's pinky nail. Preeetaaay cool.

Himalayan Trekking (Hindustan Part 2)

Day 2 in India:

It took us about three hours to get up to our campsite up in the Himalayas.

In that three hour drive, we covered about 100 Kilometers. That is because we not only drove through military blocks, but school children crossing, cows crossing, goats and I am sure there was a chicken crossing somewhere along that road. We stopped for chai (which there is always time for) bought some veggies and of course our main course, an ugly white chicken that we named Zuba. 

We stuck her in the back of the car between the tents and pots, and drove up to the 9 hut village by the river where we set up our two tents. Raleigh and I had our own sleeping tent

and a sleeping and dining tent for the men. Let me introduce you to the four men that we befriended in Kashmir:
Ali, our cook and a fierce competitor in Spoons
Latif, the calm Arabic looking man who showed us games with rocks and who was also our driver
Sohail, our trek guide who proposed to me on the tops of the Himalayas when we met the gypsies.
And of course there was John, our tour guide, our overseer who decided to stay the whole time with us in his fancy purple shirt, ironed jeans, and black loafers. In his high pitched voice that was always susceptible to hiccups, he was always trying to convince us to do something- swim in the lake, dance, not get kicked by a horse...you know, the usual.

We sat in the dining tent smoking the hookah (the hubbly bubbly as those strange British call it), had some chai, and then had some lunch prepared by Ali, who somehow in that little tent with the little fire and toolbox, makes the most amazing meals. Curried veggies, rice, chicken, pudding, and so much more. Delicious meals, which we of course eat with our hands. No, not with our hands, with out right hand- the "clean hand". I wonder if I should tell them that...nevermind...

Everything was prepared for us, served to us, and cleaned for us. All of it enjoyed in the company of these great men and the sound of the rushing fresh glacial waters. To be honest, I did not mind too much.

A bit of hiking, a bit of writing "Armenia" and "I love Daunce" on the remnants of a melting glacier, a little but of getting beat at every card game we taught the boys, and it was time to pass out in our mini tent.

Day 3 in India:

We woke up to a "continental breakfast" which we came to know as the staple of our mornings in India- two eggs (boiled or omelet style), white toast, butter, jam, and of course, chai. To prepare for our longer trek, Ali prepared us lunch, we said goodbye to  Zuba, knowing that she would be in bad shape the next time we would see her, and we set off for the hills.

We came across many gypsy families that live on these mountaintops until the fierce winters force them to find shelter in the villages below. I wonder what they think about life, how they think about life, what their conversations are like during meals, how life simply works for them. I wonder what they think of us, what they would think if they saw the kind of life I live. I wonder a lot about who they are.

When we got to the top of one of the mountains, an old man wandered from his hut to us and we shared our lunch with him- our boiled potatoes, boiled carrots, boiled eggs and 6 sandwiches that consisted of a combination of butter, cucumbers and tomatoes. Not one of Ali's best or most creative meals I must admit.
It wasn't too much of a sacrifice to give up my meal to the gypsy man, this thin older man with dark brown eyes and a tan tunic over  his dark skin. He happily took the nutritious sandwiches and dined with us on top of the hill whilst the horses ate nearby. Mealtime for all.

His sister and family saw us sitting nearby and joined us, walking out of their tree and mud hut to sit with us for an hour or two. There was an older woman and a younger one with two children (perhaps his wife and his two sons). The woman had a red scarf over her hair and she was maybe one of the most beautiful people I have seen. Maybe it was the simplicity of her life, the Himalayas in the background, the depth in her eyes that made her stand out so much, but she was truly captivating.

The old man took a nap. We played with the baby, making sure he didn't put horse poop in his mouth. We took pictures. We stared at the mountains and then back at each other over and over again, and we spent the afternoon in this kind of blissful quiet. In their quiet smiles and eyes, I saw stories of family, of hardship, of beauty, of a life of wandering gypsies who tend to their animals and their young for that is what they have to call their own. Maybe that is what eyes can say when they aren't tired of looking at computer screens or judging others. Maybe.

We left them still sitting up there, unaffected by our presence and our leaving, just sitting there, silently staring out at the endless hilltops and sky.

From the outside this may seem lazy, a waste of a day, sitting there doing nothing, not even talking. It might seem boring or maybe to some, reflective and deep. What it seemed to me though, was that to this family and to those living up there, that maybe the point of life is just to be. Not to be rich, be known, be something, but simply to be. To sit there on their hill, care for their horses, sheep and children, and be, well, human I suppose.

We came down the hill, refreshed and calm, talked about marriage (which was alwaaaays a topic of conversation), watched the river, ate Zuba and played a viscous game of Spoons before we went to sleep.
                                                                                                   ***
The next and last day of our trekking started out all too strangely.
It started with the horses. All good stories start with horses...except for the Trojans.

The hungry little horses surrounded our tent in the morning, grazing on what was left of the shrubbery near our campsite.

After playing a game of Durak (the most Russian part of me), Rals and I collected some grass to feed the poor little guys. After bonding with them and feeling good about ourselves, Raleigh noticed that one of the horse's reigns kept getting caught under its feet.
-Help him Anya.
Raleigh pleaded with me. Now what part of me decided that it was a good idea to deal with a horse's personal issue is beyond me. Maybe it was that one time I bonded with the horse I rode when I was 12 and the horse spent the majority of our romantic trot peeing everywhere or it could have been the one time I saw a horse in a movie and felt sorry for it. Whatever it was, without thinking I jumped into action.

In between the dining tent and our tent, the horse wandered, pathetically getting tangled in its ropes so I went up along our tent and the horse to help. Having been around horses for a total of 30 minutes in my entire life, I didn't know how wild horses are when they think you are coming up behind them. Let me share with you about walking behind a horse now lest you decide to in the near future, they don't like it. They really really don't.

Thinking that I was going to attack from behind, the horse defensively kicked up its front legs to gain momentum and in a spit second threw back its hind legs and nailed me right on the stomach, sending me crawling back to my audience of twenty: Raleigh, John, and 18 other snickering horses. I am sure I heard them snickering.
Embarrassment, pain, stupidity. You might ask me what I was feeling at that moment as I crawled back where everyone stood laughing at that one second that they would surely remember forever.
Let me tell you the only thing that I felt- the searing pain of a hoof on my abdomen, burning up my insides. Whoever thought that the horseshoe was a cute fashion accessory must never have been kicked by a horse.

Then John came to save the day
-Hey Anna, Anna.
-Yeah John?
-Don't walk behind the horse

Well thought out advice dear John, but your timing was a bit off.

There isn't much that can follow up a good horse-kick story except for a romantic late night boat ride back on the lake near Jupiter. A romantic ride  with Raleigh, John, and of course the Backstreet Boys. Sometimes American culture comes back and haunts you in the strangest of ways.

It was a bit breezy, a bit cloudy, and ever so peaceful. With the soft swish of the paddle as John led us out to the middle of the lake and the Backstreet Boys serenading us on his phone, we came across a little boat with a light in the middle, like a lighthouse bringing in wayward fishermen in from the raging sea. Except this lighthouse was a BBQ boat bringing in wayward hungry travelers from the not so raging lake. Yup, lamb and chicken kebabs (for beef and pork are not easily found in India) grilled over little coals between the legs of a sweaty heavyset man wearing a dirty white tunic. There was a second man on his boat, a skinny little man at the front who maneuvered the boat to stay next to ours while we feasted. After our delicious and spicy meal, we handed back the skewers to the fat man (well aware that this BBQ could lead to the leaky stomachs we were warned about before coming to India) and we floated back to Jupiter. Back to life. Back to Reality.

It started with a horse and his kick, and ended with a lake BBQ on a stick.
India is amazing.

Tales from the land of Hindustan (Part 1)

Where to?

India my good sir, and make it snappy.

4:30 AM we drove to the airport just before the pinches of sunlight pierced through. It was eerie and exciting, as if the morning was preparing for my departure. While others were safe at home dreaming about burritos and blue jeans, we were speeding down the freeway towards SFO, beginning my 30 hour journey to Hindustan, a land so unknown, so mysterious, people have poured over how to describe it for thousands of years. Now it is my turn.

My parents waited an hour for me to go through security, seeing their little bobbing heads and waving hands was the last I saw of them before I walked on, walked on. It's always a reassuring way to leave a country, seeing parental bobbing heads in excitement and sadness to see me go, knowing that in a month we can reunite in the same place with flowers, balloons, and more bobbing heads.

The plane took off, and we broke through that oppressive San Francisco fog to find that it was actually quite a sunny and lovely day, but who cares about the weather eh? Let's get to the good stuff.

India Hit. I didn't arrive there, it came and hit me, us, the moment we landed. I met Raleigh in Amsterdam and we flew to Delhi together and arrived at 11:00 PM. As our cabbie offered us a cigarette and we got our first taste of India, we felt safe and secure and ready....little did we know.

-Here is the addi good sir, get us home....

-Ahhh, no street number you say?......Interesting.

The hotel had given us an address without any specifications or phone number to call but our cabbie said, 

- No problem, we can stop by the tourist office and they can help you call and figure it all out.

We got to the office, eerie, dark, sticky. The stray dogs barked outside as the security guard dozed away on his chair. Inside there was a shuffle of feet, men's voices, confusion. Then a handsome Indian man walked in, slicked back hair, light eyes, and in his lovely British accent and said,

-What can I do for you girls?

-We need an address for the hostel we booked.

-Ok no problem, let's call.

He picked up the phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other, right under the No Smoking sign posted behind him. This was Bilal.

-Uh huh. Ummmm, ok. Here are the girls.

He looked confused and handed the phone over to Raleigh. She looked confused. He looked confused. I think in that moment my toes were a little confused.

-What do you mean? 

She asked into the phone confused.

-But I have a reservation, I don't understand.

Before India we made one plan. Just one little plan of where to stay our first two nights and we figured the rest would reveal itself.

India decided to reveal itself much sooner than we planned. The hotel had given our room to some travelers who had missed their train. As a fellow traveler, you feel responsible for other travelers and you kind of watch each others' backs, but in that moment, I was thinking, screw those traveling hussies. How dare they? How dare they hand over our room to a bunch of smelly hippies? Send them to the streets where they belong!

Bilal looked at us quizzically 

-What's the problem?

After hearing our dilemma, he nonchalantly said, 

-That's not good girls. The rest of Delhi is fully booked tonight, unfortunately you wont find room anywhere else. For you see, it's Shiva's birthday and......

Shit. Shiva. What have you done? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE oh wise one??

We called hotel after hotel and nothing. Simply nothing but unaffordable hotel suites. Listen, I say, I am a teacher, there is very little room to negotiate here.

-Ah, girls, dont worry. Welcome to India. Let's drink some chai.

There is always time for chai in India. Even at 2 in the morning when you think you will have to spend the night out under Ghandi's statue hugging his skinny legs for protection from the monsoon rains.

-Every bus, every train, every hotel is booked
 he said rather too optimistically.

- But if you want, we can go out, go out dancing, you know, clubbing. You know you can be my girlfriend,
he said, eyeing me. I was beginning to be skeptical and doubtful and unsure of what we had gotten ourselves into.

-No worries girls, we will figure something out. It is only 3AM, we have all night.

I drank my chai, sighed, and surrendered to India. And believe me you, India did not disappoint.

As more chai and cigarettes appeared and disappeared under our jet lagged daze and as I talked to the chubby-cheeked smiley Indian co-worker about politics in the Middle East, Bilal planned out our full trip in India. In the course of a few late night hours, he planned a trip to Kashmir on a houseboat, trekking, a private driver for 13 days, all hotels, some meals, a camel safari in the desert, overnight trains, beaches in Goa, lagoons, and so much more. By 4 AM we were ready for our full India experience.

We headed back to the airport, my fourth flight in a row. 48 hours of traveling and counting. But the journey had just begun.
Finally we arrived in Srinagar (pronounced Shrinigger), a breathtaking town tucked beneath the Himalayas.

At the airport we were greeted by our guide and our driver holding a sign that said “Miss Anna”. I love being called Miss Anna. It is just so proper.
They drove us through the windy streets to our second taxi floating on a lake. And we journeyed to our home for the next few days.

Our driver rowed us to our houseboat, with one oar mind you. Our boat, named Jupiter was tucked in the back of the lake so as we rowed through lotus leaves and the flowers, the Himalayas reflected in the clear still water and I thought to myself, God,  it can't get much more beautiful than this.

 Here is Mr. Wonderful Flower Man selling tulips

We floated to the gardens. We floated to the mosque. To the University. To the little British colonial town stuck in the 1700s.

-Teacher, teacher

said our smiley little tour guide who had dubbed me by my profession

-Look teacher, look around. This is our Kashmir.

Kashmir is really one of the most beautiful places I have seen; quiet, serene, seemingly endless, and full of resources and arts. That is the same reason that Kashmir has not experienced peace for a very long time. With so many skills, crafts, colors, and beauty, Pakistan and India constantly fight for control over its land and its people. Half of it now belongs to Pakistan and half to India. Though the Indian army patrols every blade of grass along the mountainside and is a complete nuisance, Kashmir is for the time being, safe, and it still manages to keep its aura of beauty and mystery.

Power. Control. Money. War. Ownership. My land. Mine. What's new?

Alas, we packed our bags on our houseboat and with the guidance of our guide John

we took off to the little mountains for a little bit of camping and trekking. And of course by little mountains, I mean the Himalayas.
                                                             Like I said, and will say again;
                                                                 India did not disappoint.

I love Daunce- Travels of Sweden and Greece Part 1

There are many things in this world that I love.
I love family and friends. Duh.
I love coffee and books and movies and boys with glasses. Double Duh.
Even more rare, I love the combination of coffee with banana, the way that water sounds you’re your ears are underwater, the way that Spaniards talk with a lisp, eating ice cream when I said I was going to go for a run, and oddly enough, I love writing.
But there is something that I realized in my travels to Sweden and Greece. Something I knew I loved but didn’t know to what extent, to what extreme.
Now I realize.
Now I know.
Thanks to my traveling buddy Raleigh, thanks to the clubs in Santorini, thanks to a French singer named Stromae, I now know, that among other things in this world, I love Daunce.

Not just dance. Not the typical hippity hoppity kind of dancing. Not the kind of swaying or side stepping- none of that. More of the soulful, deep-voiced, authentic body thrusting kind of DAUNCE where nothing is going through your mind except for the power of the music and how awesome you look in that moment even though you just look like a white girl stuck at a junior high dance with awkwardly closed eyes and even more awkwardly swaying hips. That is what I realized I loved to an extreme this summer.
Bus alas, that was only a part of the trip, for this was an epic two week trip rounding from Taiwan to Sweden to Greece and sadly back to Taiwan.
Going to Sweden to visit grandfather and grandmother was a whiff of something that had been utterly lacking in my life in Taiwan- family! Oh to be around family, around Armenian, around Armenian food, around loving and nurturing people, was such a drastic change from my daily life that I was able to soak in and truly appreciate my time there.
And you know there are those moments in life when you look back and say, man, those were the good times and I wish back then I knew how special that moment would be later in life. The day we went to my grandpa’s dacha was that kind of special moment. Well it was that kind of moment except for the fact that while I was experiencing it, I already knew it was that special moment. So in this way, I could live it enjoying it in the present, knowing how important it would be in the future when that moment would become the past. I think it was a glance of what eternity feels like- when the mix of past, present, and future coalesce into one moment, one meal, one hug.
We arrived at the dacha in the afternoon and spent the next few hours picking berries, digging up potatoes, and watching my grandpa barbecue juicy eggplant, tomatoes, pepper, and fresh beef. Oooo Gooood Lord. It was soo good to be around such good company, such fresh air, and such delicious food. After picking thousands and thousands of raspberries and linden berries,


Rals and I walked to the lake, had a sword fight, went to the bathroom next to each other on dual porter potty seats, and we just smiled knowing that we were partaking in a day that would last us a lifetime.

We came back from the lake just in time for the most amazing meal of my life- eggplant salad, fresh tomatoes with basil and onions, boiled and seasoned potatoes, and juicy steak, followed by fresh mint tea and coffee.

All grown and prepared on the little plot of land built and cared for by my grandparents.

Is there any need to continue with the rest of the trip? …….ok Yeahhhhh.

Don’t you want to know about Greece??? And why I love Daunce?
Stay tuned...

Hey Taiwan, I want an Umbrella for the Typhoon

It’s funny to look out of my window in Taiwan and see that uneasy yellow upside down W. Funny that on a typhoon day in Asia, all I see is a sign for McDonalds. Funny that I am in Asia at all.
Today the government called a “Typhoon warning” which forced the schools and most businesses to be shut down for the day- AKA, a reason for me to stay home and eat and watch gluttonous amounts of The Office.
Well then,somehow I have ended up on the sixth floor of a fancy apartment building, listening to Wyclef, and observing the ruckus this Typhoon is causing. For this reason (the constant rain, not Wyclef), the country is green- a luscious green dare I say. But not like the luscious red lips you might automatically picture, but luscious like the jungle is in Tarzan, or like the Amazon, or like apple flavored Jolly Ranchers. But this is not entirely true because I live in the city and here in the city, McDonalds has stolen the greenery and added McLuscious to the menu (corny yet true), leaving this city balding. Tarzan would be very sad here.

But alas, let’s get back to my story. So here i am in Taiwan for about a year to teach English to little rotting-toothed witty Taiwanese kids. Let me tell you a few things about these kids who can be quite the little cheeky ones.
You know how when something is gross we say, “eewwwww”. Well here they don’t say ew, they say something like this, Hiiiyyuuuuu, with a really whiney voice.
Or sometimes when on a test, a six year old girl has to write, “He has a big duck”, but unintentionally writes, “he has a big dick”, you have to slap yourself and laugh and remember that this is an unusual life you have chosen and it should not be taken too seriously, especially if you have a big duck.

Sometimes when you go around to three year olds teaching them one key phrase, “May I go to the bathroom” and you repeat it over and over and go to each child saying, “may I go to the bathroom” and waiting for them to repeat and then kneeling in front of 3 and a half year old William, asking him to repeat “may I go to the bathroom”, and waiting in silence for him attempt his inquiry , when he looks at you with his sad thoughtful puppy eyes, discomfort from his diapers peeking through, and he replies in all seriousness, “yes.” Yes teacher, you may go to the bathroom, he is allowing me. Thanks little buddy.

And the most important lesson to survive in Taiwan with children is to learn that there is no such thing as Rock, Paper, Scissors here. Oh no, it is, prepare these items and choose wisely from: Paper, Scissors, and Stone. And this Confucian method is used to decide EVERYTHING- from who gets to roll the dice, to who hit whom in this acciden. You can also find pockets of little children standing in groups playing Paper, Scissor, Stone. And it is beyond me how you can play this probability game with a group- and yet, in Taiwan, they do.

In Taiwan, Things you never dreamed are possible. Things like meals for under $2, a gross misuse and waste of plastic bags, a family of six riding on a tiny scooter, girls dressed in clubbin skanky dresses with their hair done at a salon just to go Karaoke in a private room with their friends ( KTV as it is known here and is considered the hub for youngsters), and even things like shirts that break upon first wear yet apartments that outlast vicious tropical storms. This is Taiwan and oddly, it has somewhat become my Taiwan, my comforting little Asian fortress.

I have learned a lot about myself, a lot about Asian culture, yet sadly, very little of the Chinese language. My word, I have tried, but my Chinese gets me far enough to order food, say where I am going, that I am hot, and that "I want my iced American coffee to go- and that I don’t need a bag, but thank you very much". I sometimes wish I could speak Chinese so I could overhear conversations and get by easily but this grand communicating obstacle can be a source of patience, of learning, of using every other sense to act out and recreate my desire or need. I have become quite the actress.
Cue senses reenactment at the local 7-11:
Sound: “I would like an umbrella”.
Touch: Point and tap on counter.
Sight: Show a “hypothetical” girl who is caught in the rain holding a device in her hand to protect her from the torrents of water leaking from the sky.
Taste and Smell: These two sense are reserved for your imagination. Go wild.
So there it is. I went to buy an umbrella because the typhoon began yesterday while I was out buying mangos. They never can assume what I want- Taiwanese people can be kind of unimaginative when it comes to putting two and two together, sorry to say. It’s pouring, I’m wet with no obvious protection…”No, I don’t want cigarettes. Not an egg dipped in tea. Not a condom, but getting closer. Yes, Yes, umbrella! Bravo! Xie Xie.”
AAaaaand Time: 3 minutes and 24 seconds
For my next language exchange, I will try to memorize the word for umbrella, but it is highly unlikely I will get a chance to impose It into my mind deep enough to remember next time I need one. Plus, how many umbrellas can one girl have? Sheesh.