Fed Up With the Feds
I heard the big news when I turned on my laptop yesterday morning.
Britney gave K-Fed the boot. Finally.
Then the other big news: Democrats gave Republicans the boot. Finally.
I spent half the day listening to NPR, worrying over Montana and Virginia, “You go, girl”-ing Pelosi and feeling very American. My British roommate and his countryman were unmoved when I skipped to the living room to share the news. I didn’t bother telling them about Britney.
In the afternoon I turned off my computer and went to the most American place I could think of: the mall.
Citi Centre, Chennai’s newest and hippest mall, is within walking distance of my new apartment. I discovered it on Sunday, and it caused my heart to leap.
Now, hear this: I hate malls. In Los Angeles I avoided them except to go to movies. Malls remind me of high school and Jersey and having nothing better to do. So it surprised me that first sight of Citi Centre filled me with glee. I almost threw my hands in the air, rollercoaster-style, as I rode the escalators, the first I’d seen in India’s fourth-largest city.
Two months into my India stay, I crave modernity. I don’t mean central air or toilets that flush, though such technologies are swell. I mean order.
Chennai, or most of it, is chaos. Restaurants without maitre d’s or menus. Stores without price tags or change for a 100-rupee note (a little more than $2). Streets clogged with honk-happy drivers, stray dogs, and vendors of flowers, fruits, coffee and paan.
Walking outside requires full attention and razor-sharp reflexes. Stoplights are scarce, and there’s no such thing as right of way. I’ve yet to see a single blink of a turn signal. There’s more to crossing the street than looking both ways. It’s look right, then left, then right, then left, then right, then run. Motorcyclists think nothing of riding the wrong way down a street. They think nothing of riding the wrong way while talking on their cell phones. I jump to avoid collisions so often as to consider it cardio. I suck in my gut to dodge handlebar jabs.
It’s not that I’m tired of all this. But it is tiring.
The mall, by comparison, is a place of order and calm. I can wander -- and let my mind wander -- without fear of dismemberment. I can finger skirts and sunglasses without salesmen circling. I can hear my thoughts. They’re a mite more lyrical than the “Madam! Madam! Rickshaw?” I constantly hear outside. The mall as mountaintop. Who woulda thunk?
Citi Centre is the sort of mall that would go by “galleria” in the U.S. It’s compact, bling-y and architecturally ambiguous: faux neoclassical exterior, glass-covered atrium and floor tiles masquerading as fan cobblestone. There’s a creperie, several coffee shops and a “Fun City” playpen for kids. Anchored by a department store called Lifestyle and festooned with banners of hollow-cheeked women and stubbly men, Citi Centre screams America. (If you ignore the kiosk selling black burkas and headscarves.)
Yesterday I toured the food court and considered my options. There were a variety of Indian cuisines: Chettinad, Lucknowi, Bengali and Punjabi, among others. Wangs Kitchen promised a taste of China, Mex Chic’Inn boasted burritos, and Little Italy offered a variety of pizzas, pastas and -- oddly -- nachos.
I settled on Pizza Hut.
Like I said, I was feeling American. I washed down my personal pan pizza with a can of Diet Pepsi, sold at a satisfyingly capitalistic 40 percent markup. Then I strolled to Lifestyle, humming the ‘80s power ballads in constant rotation. Once upon a time I was falling in love, but now I'm only falling apart. There's nothing I can do - total eclipse of the heart.
I was in a dressing room, experimenting with a fuchsia shawl, when my phone rang. It was Scott, an American who lives in Chennai with his Indian-American wife, Padma.
“Guess what I found,” he said.
“A suitcase?”
I wasn’t feeling terribly imaginative, and I’d recently chucked my carry-on, a casualty of Operation Smuggle Eight Bottles of Wine from Bangalore to Chennai.
“Better than that,” Scott said.
“A wine store that actually sells wine?”
“Even better.”
I gave up. The fuchsia shawl worked as a skirt, too.
“Pancake mix,” he exhaled. “You’re on the hook for brunch.”
O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, what so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Britney gave K-Fed the boot. Finally.
Then the other big news: Democrats gave Republicans the boot. Finally.
I spent half the day listening to NPR, worrying over Montana and Virginia, “You go, girl”-ing Pelosi and feeling very American. My British roommate and his countryman were unmoved when I skipped to the living room to share the news. I didn’t bother telling them about Britney.
In the afternoon I turned off my computer and went to the most American place I could think of: the mall.
Citi Centre, Chennai’s newest and hippest mall, is within walking distance of my new apartment. I discovered it on Sunday, and it caused my heart to leap.
Now, hear this: I hate malls. In Los Angeles I avoided them except to go to movies. Malls remind me of high school and Jersey and having nothing better to do. So it surprised me that first sight of Citi Centre filled me with glee. I almost threw my hands in the air, rollercoaster-style, as I rode the escalators, the first I’d seen in India’s fourth-largest city.
Two months into my India stay, I crave modernity. I don’t mean central air or toilets that flush, though such technologies are swell. I mean order.
Chennai, or most of it, is chaos. Restaurants without maitre d’s or menus. Stores without price tags or change for a 100-rupee note (a little more than $2). Streets clogged with honk-happy drivers, stray dogs, and vendors of flowers, fruits, coffee and paan.
Walking outside requires full attention and razor-sharp reflexes. Stoplights are scarce, and there’s no such thing as right of way. I’ve yet to see a single blink of a turn signal. There’s more to crossing the street than looking both ways. It’s look right, then left, then right, then left, then right, then run. Motorcyclists think nothing of riding the wrong way down a street. They think nothing of riding the wrong way while talking on their cell phones. I jump to avoid collisions so often as to consider it cardio. I suck in my gut to dodge handlebar jabs.
It’s not that I’m tired of all this. But it is tiring.
The mall, by comparison, is a place of order and calm. I can wander -- and let my mind wander -- without fear of dismemberment. I can finger skirts and sunglasses without salesmen circling. I can hear my thoughts. They’re a mite more lyrical than the “Madam! Madam! Rickshaw?” I constantly hear outside. The mall as mountaintop. Who woulda thunk?
Citi Centre is the sort of mall that would go by “galleria” in the U.S. It’s compact, bling-y and architecturally ambiguous: faux neoclassical exterior, glass-covered atrium and floor tiles masquerading as fan cobblestone. There’s a creperie, several coffee shops and a “Fun City” playpen for kids. Anchored by a department store called Lifestyle and festooned with banners of hollow-cheeked women and stubbly men, Citi Centre screams America. (If you ignore the kiosk selling black burkas and headscarves.)
Yesterday I toured the food court and considered my options. There were a variety of Indian cuisines: Chettinad, Lucknowi, Bengali and Punjabi, among others. Wangs Kitchen promised a taste of China, Mex Chic’Inn boasted burritos, and Little Italy offered a variety of pizzas, pastas and -- oddly -- nachos.
I settled on Pizza Hut.
Like I said, I was feeling American. I washed down my personal pan pizza with a can of Diet Pepsi, sold at a satisfyingly capitalistic 40 percent markup. Then I strolled to Lifestyle, humming the ‘80s power ballads in constant rotation. Once upon a time I was falling in love, but now I'm only falling apart. There's nothing I can do - total eclipse of the heart.
I was in a dressing room, experimenting with a fuchsia shawl, when my phone rang. It was Scott, an American who lives in Chennai with his Indian-American wife, Padma.
“Guess what I found,” he said.
“A suitcase?”
I wasn’t feeling terribly imaginative, and I’d recently chucked my carry-on, a casualty of Operation Smuggle Eight Bottles of Wine from Bangalore to Chennai.
“Better than that,” Scott said.
“A wine store that actually sells wine?”
“Even better.”
I gave up. The fuchsia shawl worked as a skirt, too.
“Pancake mix,” he exhaled. “You’re on the hook for brunch.”
O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, what so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
posted by Badass at 6:53 PM
8 Comments:
hi anna! having fun 'following' you around... especially loved the photo of alex upside down. hope to see you on your next trip through london!
When I was in Japan I walked a mile in sleeting rain for a Big Mac. I was sick of noodles. Also, I have secured a hot date with a yoga babe. There is a God.
-Steve
It's funny the things that can make you feel American when you are abroad. I remember being soooo excited because the NBA All-Star game was on the TV in London. Like I ever watch basketball now!
It's comforting to hear that malls everywhere are exactly the same - fluorescent lights, bad mexican food and bonnie tyler. Gotta love it. I had much the same experience when I moved to New York from my small Kansas town. Escalators never felt so good. Wee miss you annabanana!
Love, amy
Going to your old stomping grounds of NYC! It sounds ohhhhhhh so civilized!
Thought you would appreciate the fact that it is payback time for my sis - oh yes, it is her bachelorette party, and do I have an outfit for her!
Ooooooh, I am so craving Pizza Hut now. I wish I could be there for pancake breakfast! Love, AJ
Here at the Metropolitan Mall in Gurgaon, there is a TGIFridays. Apparently they serve lamburgers instead of hamburgers. I didn't have a chance to try it, but I was pleasantly surprised by the McAloo Tikki Burger from McDonalds.
Hi everyone! Thanks for dropping a line!!
Steve, keep us posted on the hot date. Helo, send photos of Ju looking absurd. Marisa, I see you're discovering "Indianized" American food. Gotta love it. I should have mentioned that the pizza I inhaled at the mall had a "chicken tikka" topping.
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