Video Supplement to "Crossed the Street" Blog...

The video above does a decent job of depicting the experience of crossing a busy Bangalore street. It was shot on a Sunday morning at 9am (which may be as calm as this particular crossing ever gets).

Sorry it takes awhile to load. I don't have the software here to compress the file properly.

“So what? You crossed the street.”

Today at noon, I addressed a group of 600 students at Christ Junior College (a two-year, college prep program). Half the audience was second year students (who act as if they own the place). The other half just arrived on campus (and seemed overwhelmed by their new surroundings). My remarks (which follow, in italics) were intended for the newbies.

Rather than give a speech today, I thought I’d tell a story. My tale begins four weeks ago, when I arrived in India for the very first time. Feeling confident, I arrived at Bangalore International Airport… determined to conduct myself as a traveler; not as a tourist.

As a traveler, I opted for the 180-rupee bus, instead of the 1,000-rupee taxi. All was fine, until the bus dropped me off across the street from campus. Now folks back in the USA would think, “So what? You had to cross the street.” That’s because they’ve never had to cross a busy street in Bangalore… especially with six week’s worth of luggage in tow.

I hopped of the bus, and saw the sign… Christ University. I’d made it. I was fifty steps from the gate. Then I realized. Rickshaws zoomed from my right. Motorcycles from the left. Busses speeding both ways. Every vehicle changing lanes… honking horns… hell-bent on transforming the visiting professor into road kill.

I decided that there was no way I was crossing here. So I walked a few blocks in one direction, then a few more in the other. Not a traffic light in sight. Back where the bus had first dropped me off, I sat on my suitcase and observed. The locals were crossing with ease, despite the fact that all the vehicles were headed down what I still consider the wrong side of the street. I had two options… and the second one was to take a taxi to the airport and fly back home.

So I braced myself, took a deep breath, waited for the just right moment… and bolted as fast as these 54-year old legs would take me. And I made it.

Your thoughts are probably like those I mentioned earlier. “So what? You crossed the street.” But you’re also probably wondering why I’m sharing this as part of your CJC Inauguration Ceremony.

I share this story because I suspect many of you first year-students are feeling today what I felt four weeks ago. It’s part fear, part excitement, right? The only difference is that I stood on the curb… and you’re sitting in an auditorium.

Well, there is one other difference. I made it across the street alive, and you’re still sitting in an auditorium. So what did I find on the other side of that fear I was facing?

I found rewards, challenges, friends I’ll never forget… and, most of all, I discovered that I could accomplish and understand things I’d never even imagined.

So… four weeks later, knowing what I know now, I think to myself, “So what? You crossed the street.”

Welcome to Christ Junior College, and thank you.

It's a Ponderful Life

I awaken at most days at 5am. That would be 9:30pm... yesterday... for most of this blog's followers. And my first and only real obligation today is a class meeting (at Cuppa, a local coffee shop, with my three ever-faithful American students) at 2pm.

So to say I have time for reflection is an understatement. So, when a guy who likes to think he stays pretty busy gets to ponder the big stuff, what does he ponder?

Initially, I mentally (and now publicly) acknowledge the people who helped make this amazing misadventure possible.

Susan comes first to mind (and always will). 'Nuf said.

Next come (in order of birth) Rob, Liz and Kate... whose lives remind me daily of the importance of discovery in personal growth. All three of you inspire me. 

Taking one step in the opposite generational direction are my parents. Never, not even for a nanosecond, have I ever doubted or been denied their love and support... which, considering my behavior in the 1970s, is pretty amazing. Would it be too much to ask that they both live and love me forever?

And of course, the team at McConnell Marketing deserves major recognition. These are the folks whose independence, trustworthiness and commitment make this (warning: cliché alert) life-changing experience possible. There needs to be a word for business associates who feel like family. "Biz-amily" perhaps.

One thing I really admire about India is its acceptance of all faiths. I get the sense that the culture collectively uses God, Buddha, Allah, and all the other names we bestow upon deity to identify a single higher power who graciously allows His (Her) people to address Him or Her as we please. 

That said, I'd like to thank Him (Her) for calling me halfway around the world. Because for some unknown (to me, at least) reason... I've been able to hear His (Her) voice much more clearly from this location.

Now that's something to ponder.

Ramen and Realization

My daughter Katie predicted that I'd have difficulty maintaining my blogging habit after I'd been here a week. I was skeptical. She was right.

When she was in Africa for a semester, she blogged initially. But at some point, I suspect she chose to live the experience… rather than invest time sharing it in cyberspace. I now get it.

I'm now a little past the mid-point of the misadventure, and have been feeling a bit bipolar. One minute, I'm bewildered, enchanted and charmed by this country, its culture and its people. The next, I'm lonely, angry and generally pissed off.

Let's start with the bottom rung of Maslow's hierarchy. My shelter is quite acceptable. I occupy a one-bedroom apartment on the fifth floor of a well-located campus building. Not bad. But there's an AC unit in the bedroom that has yet to issue a single breeze that's below the temperature outside. And for an internet connection, I descend five flights of stairs to the lobby for a Wi-Fi signal that's iffy on a good day.

The cooking facilities in the "kitchen" (for which I pay a premium), consist only of a water-boiling device. So I've rediscovered Ramen noodles, and come to cherish instant coffee. But I do have a full-sized refrigerator and the proverbial kitchen sink.

I finally found a communal washing machine in a sixth floor utility room that's usually locked, but nobody admits to being the keeper of the key. As for drying clothes, we all use the clothesline on the building's roof. Normally, that would be fine. I like stiff, shrunken blue jeans. But monsoon season commences in June… meaning torrential downpours without warning… meaning drying a load of laundry becomes a multi-day process.

So, when I'm not eating Ramen, I dine out. There's a university cafeteria in my building. The food's dirt cheap, but the menu is limited to about a dozen selections… all based on some curry-flavored combination of flour, rice, lentils and chili peppers. There are items with chicken and/or egg on the menu, but every time I attempt to order one, the counter person says "no chicken – no egg" as if it was the mantra of some south Asian religious cult.

So I often hit the neighborhood restaurants for a different curry-flavored combination of flour, rice, lentils and chili peppers… but with about an ounce of bone-laden chicken added (and a few flies for ambiance). Except for the teaching, that's the highlight of most of my days.

So here comes the bipolar part. I love teaching here. The three American students in my "official" international marketing class are awesome. But the real kick has come as the result of accepting invitations to address Indian students in a variety of business-related classes. I've lectured to high school (called junior college here), undergraduate and MBA classes. Virtually every Indian student I've encountered seems to feel incredibly fortunate for the opportunity to learn.

The classroom setting is amazingly formal. The word I hear most often is "Sir." They stand collectively as I enter the room, and individually when asking or answering a question. And get this… they applaud at the end of the session.

I always liked when Steven King closed stories by directing a final message to the "faithful reader." So I will do the same. What's been my big realization so far? I now know that five weeks in a truly foreign land serves only to teach one how much he doesn't know. Three weeks in… I know nothing. Except perhaps, what I don't know yet.

India: Where three-legged dogs almost outnumber flies. But the mosquito outnumbers them both.

A Day in the Life

Settling in finally. My class, consisting of me and three American students, meets for two hours - five days a week. The students are all from different states & and schools... but share a remarkable sense of adventure. Class convenes at a different time everyday (as early as 9am, as late as 2pm). For the past two days, we've held class at a table for four in Cuppa, a locally owned coffee shop about five minutes from campus.

Anyway, my typical weekday begins at 5am (yes, by choice). First a cup of instant coffee. Then maybe I'll read the chapter and case assigned for that day's class (with perhaps a second cup of Nescafe). And it appears that I am the ONLY person on campus awake at 7am.

By 7:15am, the main cafeteria opens, and I'm off for real coffee and a dosa (pictured below). A dosa is an over-sized pancake, accompanied by two small metal cups of as-yet-unknown spices -- one red and spicy, the other white and semi-sweet. No silverware. It's to be eaten with the right hand. The dosa is 15 Indian rupees, and the coffee is 6. With the current exchange rate of 42 rupees to 1 US dollar -- that's a hot breakfast, served at my table, for 50 cents. Oh... and I almost forgot to mentioned the existence of a wifi signal in the cafeteria. Life is good.

On most every weekday, I'm invited to attend or participate in some campus gathering or seminar. This matters to me... providing an opportunity to interact with other adults and enjoy in-depth exchanges about everything from culture to cricket (the sport that inspires the greatest passion among locals).

By late afternoon or early evening, I leave campus to wander the neighborhood for an hour or two. Sometimes I return with a few grocery items (my kitchen facilities allow me to refrigerate or add boiling water...  as there is no oven, cooktop, or microwave). I have rediscovered the joys of ramen and sliced cheese (made from goat milk only, given the sacred nature of cows here).

By 9pm, I'm ready to crash. There's a TV in my humble on-campus apartment, but I've yet to find anything in English except CSI reruns and Belator mixed martial arts fighting. So I thank good for (and Liz, and Amazon) for my Kindle, and read myself to sweaty sleep.

Residency Permit & Dive Bar

The day before classes begin. The CU folks load 18 of us into 6 auto-rickshaw (capacity, 3 each) and send us across town for an all-day process of getting a residency permit. This makes the passport & visa process look like a day spent fishing. This desk. That form. The line over there. I'm now six hours into the process, with another hour to go.

So I duck into a neighborhood bar for a bottle of Kingfisher. This bar reminds me of the one in Star Wars. I MAY be the first foreigner to ever set foot in here. But despite the stares I'm getting, the beer's cold and I'm not standing in line.

What’s it like?

Who am I, after 36 hours in Bangalore, to answer that question? Better that I answer a more specific question: what are your initial impressions?

Let's start with general impressions of India. It's crowded, hot, noisy, confusing, dirty, and nothing is easily accomplished. Yet it's not without charm. People are generally pleasant and helpful, and all but the poor and uneducated speak English.

I planned to make my next paragraph about Bangalore, but given that (except for a tedious, middle-of-the-night connection in Bombay) Bangalore is the only part of India I've experienced. I'll skip ahead to Christ University. It's a pretty cool campus, right in a busy part of town. Yet despite its decidedly urban surroundings, it's remarkably tranquil. CU's personality is more like that of a commuter-oriented state school (a la Youngstown State) than of a residential "go off to college" institution. The only folks who live on campus are the Catholic priests (who run the place), international visitors (like myself) and a select few female students who inhabit the single dorm on campus. Buildings are locked up from 6pm until 8am the next morning. It's pretty much all business. Enroll for an education. Period.

Now, about the USAC program at CU. There are about twenty of us here now for the first of two summer sessions, and we came together for the first time today for orientation. Most are from the USA. I am the only person in our group older than 40. Our Resident Director (the adult from the host school who coordinates USAC visits) is Jacob Johns. He seems like a genuinely good guy who does this for all the right reasons. He loves his country and his culture, and gets great joy in helping others understand both. He's assisted by Ms. Florence, an Indian female (about my age) who seems to play, quite capably, the "mother" role.

Today, we did the requisite, predictable orientation stuff in the morning. Then we boarded a public bus bound for the center of town and had an awesome Indian lunch. I loved the food, but will cherish the bus trip memories even more. Imagine eighteen jet-lagged 19-22 year-olds, many of whom had never traveled internationally before, boarding a crowded public bus as it careened through the most intense traffic I've ever seen. Their eyes (and mine) all seemed to say, "Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore." Jacob and Florence could have arranged a private University bus, but I'm glad they didn't.