New York, New York

Thank goodness I live in New York City. Though the place drives me mad with both ecstatic amazement and choking frustration, it has given me something of true value. Living in NYC for the past two years has prepared me for India in a way that no other city in America could have. Indians keep asking me, "Aren't you surprised by such-and-such customs or situations here?" and I have to say no, not really. We have these things too. In New York.

We too have a problem with public urination.

We too bear a tragic chasm between our mega rich and our desperately poor (we just try to hide it).

We too lack any discernible traffic lanes or real road rules of any kind, with large trucks often whizzing by on the narrowest of BQE lanes at ludicrous speed, narrowly missing my vehicle by two inches.

There are so many things about New York that remind me of India, or maybe it's the other way around, and it's India that reminds me of home. Many travelers, particularly women of course, seem shocked by the constant hassle of male attention. The masses of generic Indian men are not shy. They cross our lines of respect with endless staring, getting way too close, making lewd suggestions, enjoying the thrilling feel of their eyes on white skin. Western women constantly cross their lines of respect by wearing little more than a bikini. Hello, prostitute!

Well, tough cookie, mister, because I am having none of it. I've been dealing with this for a long time. At home they're just Jamaican and have dreads and say "man," "sister," and "mama" a lot and smell like pot. Not a day goes by in my neighborhood when I go home without getting stared at, and usually cat-called too. "Heyyyy baby, it's hoooot out today, why you walkin' so faaast? Slow down and cool off hooooney, awww, come on..." the homeboys say. Long ago I learned how to project an icy exterior. I never make eye contact, I scowl, I walk with a purpose and intent. It was irritating at first, now it's faintly amusing, and it will never stop. For the Indian men, I just say "Excuuuuse me" and look 'em in the eye and the look of utter shock on their face is priceless. A woman has just talked back! Wow! I don't get bothered after that.

Westerners told me before I left, "India is dirty." Yes, they were right, India could be called dirty. Well, so could NYC. We enjoy a whiff of stale urine from a stairwell and (apparently) dump garbage in empty lots, or just on the street if the inclination arises. I've seen some cleaner railway platforms and subway stations throughout India than some of the crumbling ones owned by the MTA, with fat rats crawling around bags of garbage and that homeless man doing - yes, THAT - defecating over in the far corner. Today, as we approached India's IT hub, I saw a row of nicely spaced poor men, back facing the train, doing their most personal of business in the dust of a half-constructed road. Moments later we pulled into one of Bangalore's sparkling new train stations. How is it that the best of the world's cities, where some of the biggest business deals get made and the brightest and best-educated talent lives, also have some of the nastiest filth? Whatever the answer, man, I live in NYC. I've seen people poop in the street before, no big deal.

For a minute it's funny to me that Western backpackers are surprised by any of this. Then again they probably live in places like Paris, or Israel, or Florida, where the contrasts are not in your face quite in the same way.

I'm pretty sure that NYC was mistaken for greatness and is really a developing country, struggling with a thousand inconsistencies every day. It's entirely feasible that Brad Pitt, or someone as handsome, rich and famous as him, stumbles onto the nameless-homeless guy's shopping cart tent because they're just accidentally in the same street at the same time. I don't think this is how I'd ever describe Seattle, Portland, or Boston, the other cities in which I've lived. They do a much better job of separating their filth from their beauty.

The problem for me is that I'm utterly fascinated by it all. I love that NYC is so bizarre with it's inability to prevent everything from mixing together in total chaos. I also love this about India. I like that I'm not surprised by anything anymore, except for the way the strangeness sticks out awkwardly. New Yorkers - keep honking obsessively, it's weird and really annoying, but now I'm used to it and silence in the street is also weird (wouldn't you want to let everyone around you know, WATCH OUT HERE I COOOOMMMMEEE! if you drive like a maniac?).

As a traveler in India I can't effectively do my own driving, wash my own laundry, book my own transportation, shop in a proper grocery store, avoid creepy men, get a fair price, pretend like discrimination doesn't exist, or forget about poverty. I can't do any of these things in NYC either.

India feels like home, and home feels like India. Hello, cousin!