Heart
Lots of stuff.
First, last Sunday the American crew and I headed out to an orphanage to help out with a Sports Day organized by the international volunteers we met the previous week. Really, getting to hang out with kids for an afternoon and run around in the dirt was a big enough reason to wake up early on Sunday. Hopefully some new pics (and captions to old ones) made it up on
http://www.flickr.com/photos/lauraneuhaus/
And the day of big red commericialzed hearts? A shocking discovery in interpreting Hallmark’s holiday.
The newspapers special Valentine’s editorials, filled with appalling suggestions to young girls that if they don’t have a date, they should “stomp their feet when their friends talk about their crushes, in protest that you don’t have a boy and aren’t getting the attention you deserve” and “text the boy you like every ten minutes on his date, throwing off his ability to woo the girl he’s actually with tonight.” Wow.
More interestingly, apparently no Valentine’s Evening in Bangalore is complete without a disco ball, strobe lights, a fog machine, and awful german techno from the 80’s. After a lovely beginning to lovely dinner at one of the best restaurants around town (who served fresh cheese and vinaigrette- these days it just doesn’t get better than that), they went all out with candles, frank sinatra, champagne, and even a pink potpourri gift basket. Then within literally 17 seconds after my French mustard penne arrived, my world dramatically changed.
Gone was the romantic ambience. In its place, a DJ voice screeched across the ridiculously expensive mega bass sound system…. “ALL YOU COUPLES GET OUT ON THE DANCE FLOOR! I’M NOT ASKING YOU, I’M DEMANDING YOU! PAAAAAARTY YAAAH!”
The DJ, a scrawny seventeen year old clad in typical new york city thug fashion, then blasted the most obnoxious a sappy Top Gun ballad remixed with heavy beats reminiscent of a east Berlin underground techno club circa 1987. But the fun really began as pollution-colored smoke exploded out of the newly installed fog machine, the neon strobe lights began their seizure-inducing spinning dance mere yards from my face, and as the restaurant was consumed in valentines day hell… all I could do was frantically search for the kitsch factor in order to survive this sensory overload.
But it was too much- between the 187 decibel rendition of techno’ed barry white and the fluorescent flashing lights drilling holes into my corneas, not even my undying love for all things camp and kitsch could dupe me into believing this was a unique cultural experience. I gulped the rest of the free local red wine, and resolved to revel in the absurdity of my surrondings and maybe learn a few words to "Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Babe". (Continued)
First, last Sunday the American crew and I headed out to an orphanage to help out with a Sports Day organized by the international volunteers we met the previous week. Really, getting to hang out with kids for an afternoon and run around in the dirt was a big enough reason to wake up early on Sunday. Hopefully some new pics (and captions to old ones) made it up on
http://www.flickr.com/photos/lauraneuhaus/
And the day of big red commericialzed hearts? A shocking discovery in interpreting Hallmark’s holiday.
The newspapers special Valentine’s editorials, filled with appalling suggestions to young girls that if they don’t have a date, they should “stomp their feet when their friends talk about their crushes, in protest that you don’t have a boy and aren’t getting the attention you deserve” and “text the boy you like every ten minutes on his date, throwing off his ability to woo the girl he’s actually with tonight.” Wow.
More interestingly, apparently no Valentine’s Evening in Bangalore is complete without a disco ball, strobe lights, a fog machine, and awful german techno from the 80’s. After a lovely beginning to lovely dinner at one of the best restaurants around town (who served fresh cheese and vinaigrette- these days it just doesn’t get better than that), they went all out with candles, frank sinatra, champagne, and even a pink potpourri gift basket. Then within literally 17 seconds after my French mustard penne arrived, my world dramatically changed.
Gone was the romantic ambience. In its place, a DJ voice screeched across the ridiculously expensive mega bass sound system…. “ALL YOU COUPLES GET OUT ON THE DANCE FLOOR! I’M NOT ASKING YOU, I’M DEMANDING YOU! PAAAAAARTY YAAAH!”
The DJ, a scrawny seventeen year old clad in typical new york city thug fashion, then blasted the most obnoxious a sappy Top Gun ballad remixed with heavy beats reminiscent of a east Berlin underground techno club circa 1987. But the fun really began as pollution-colored smoke exploded out of the newly installed fog machine, the neon strobe lights began their seizure-inducing spinning dance mere yards from my face, and as the restaurant was consumed in valentines day hell… all I could do was frantically search for the kitsch factor in order to survive this sensory overload.
But it was too much- between the 187 decibel rendition of techno’ed barry white and the fluorescent flashing lights drilling holes into my corneas, not even my undying love for all things camp and kitsch could dupe me into believing this was a unique cultural experience. I gulped the rest of the free local red wine, and resolved to revel in the absurdity of my surrondings and maybe learn a few words to "Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Babe". (Continued)
posted by Laura | 2:28 AM
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