hopping the ponds

Huegge was the one Danish word my friends Jakob and Sarah taught me that really stuck.  It means, as best as I can approximate, to chill or to hang out.  Oftentimes, this includes grabbing a beer or a coffee with a friend, or even a grandparent.  I tried to think of the exact English equivalent, but I couldn't find a phrase or word I'd use equally as often with my friends and with my parents.

In any case, arriving in Istanbul with Zelinsky and his Law school classmate, Becca, we found a quite hueggely restaurant between the Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sophia.  Against all inertia, we managed to get to the Basilica Sistern, a huge underground cistern with 3-4ft carp swimming freely in the freshwater pool.  They say the place was discovered when an archeologist found out that people were simply digging holes in their basement to get fresh water, sometimes catching fish in the process.

Later on, Becca went to the Whirling Dervishes show, which she found oddly pornographic because the dance itself is quite religious and spiritual, not, oddly, because there were men dancing in white dresses.  Z and I went around to the point and hung out on the rocks to take in the harbor and the mouth of the Bosphorous.  It was an odd thought that I was already back in Europe.

After time in Dahab getting scuba certified and Petra with some Danes, I just spent a couple days chillin' at Aaron Zelinsky's apartment in Jerusalem, affectionately, the 'Rus'.  I did a one night trip to Haifa and Acre.  Tomorrow we leave for Turkey.  Z and I have determined that the geological structures of the Cappadocia region will be the highlight of the trip before even leaving Israel, more specifically the "Fairy Chimneys".  Therefore, we have made a cardboard sign with the appropriate trip mantra:  "Fairy Chimneys or Bust"

With my comeback tour to blogtown failing like Tina Turner in a tight dress, I've resolved connect stories seemingly at random as the limits of chronology have slowed this gravy train to an oozing halt.

Skipping Jaisalmer's time in the spotlight to get to Jodhpur, I found myself pleasantly exhausted after yet another fairytale fort tour.  I relaxed under my very own Bodhi tree at yet another white marble palace of beauty.  Soon thereafter, I was joined by yet another group of curious Indians.  But this time something was different.  Me, most likely, because the questions were no different than those I had received a thousand times.  When trying to understand my now delinquent blogarhythms, ponder this question I was posed after formalities of "Which country?" "What name?" "Niewyourk?" "Cheekagoo?",

"What is America like?"

I would imagine it's like trying to explain to your child what was happening when Mommy was groaning and Daddy wouldn't let her go.  Where the hell do you start?  We fell in love?  Love's one big game of hot potato?  Parents told us we shouldn't?  What about Penis in Vagina sex, the phrase coined by my high school sex ed teacher, a 400 lb Black man who loved to laughingly explain the technicalities to a room full of scrawny white kids?  We lost an earring?

Stalling, I asked for more specific questions.  Instead, they described to me a magical land where sugarplums danced like raindrops and rainplums danced like sugardrops.  For a more specific and tangible example, I was told it was a place where you could marry and divorce as many times as you like.  Freedom!  Woo, delinquent relationships!  It was an odd feeling, trying to explain the paradox of freedom when the image of greener pastures was already so vividly painted.  Moreover, the Rufio of this pack of Lost Boys was my senior, about to turn 30.  He was in the city from the countryside because his wife was visiting family.  He got dragged along and found himself wandering sights he'd seen hundreds of times in his childhood.  Wasn't I the Lost Boy and he the family man?

I thought hard about how to break this image, but realized that the resident psychologist for Indians, metaphorically speaking, had prescribed a strong dose of California dreaming, of 'if-onlys' that are too entrenched for any one person to pop, if one were so inclined.  The America pill had been popped first, with all the best parts of Viagra, Prozac and Heroine and none of the drawbacks.  It made me think of the corresponding imaginary American psychologist, prescribing lottery tickets, the patriotism of "Uh-Murrica" and Obama.

I gave it a shot, gently playing devil's advocate to notions one through thirty-nine.  At forty, I had to go.  I left for the Umaid Palace Hotel, drank way too much tea and hung out in the bathroom with a couch for a while.

For the record, I am now in Egypt after times in Udaipur, Bangalore, Mumbai, Mauritius, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Zambia (for 30 minutes on a run) and Botswana to give you the scope of my waning diligence. My rationale is that I would be missing out on other stories to be had by spending too much time writing up everything. 

But I'm a sucker for a pretty face...

Thanks to those who have directly or indirectly sent me blompliments along the way.  Because of them, I now know that approximately 10 people have taken a glance at these postings.  10 people is popular enough for me.  It was a good idea to take off the "hits" counter.

Last time I wrote I was in Jaipur about to plunge into my Rajasthan run.  Since then, this trip has become only more musical.  Sometimes that feels like a CIA operation in Nicaragua and other times it's a bit more melodious.

Jaipur, the capital of Rajasthan and Western apex of the disturbingly named "Golden Triangle" (Agra and Delhi are the others) made me feel like Tiger Woods walking up to the 19th hole in the US Open.  My hotel was situated about 2km outside of the wall of the Pink City and as I walked I aimed to perfect my stoic face so as to deter the Tuk-Tuk drivers who would pull up next to me in a never ending cycle.  Walking is not permitted for tourists.  Comprehension of a 'comparative advantage' is not allowed for rickshaw drivers.  I tried to anticipate them and calmly stick out my Jedi hand to inform them of my desires to breathe in the sweet diesel perfumes and swirling desert dust of this tourist center cum industrial capital.  However, the struggle raged inside of me with no trophy to be won by these efforts of self-control, merely the solace that I did not flip out and yell at some innocent vendor in the middle of the swarmily sweltering street.

Inside the Pink City I wandered past myriad uninhabited, but open, shops.  The off season seemed to relax some of the Indian businessmen and ennervate others.  Above the fray, I found an open minaret smack dab in the center of the city.  Climbing up the the spiralling ramp, the soon to be familiar smell of pigeonated urea and ammonia assaulted my nostrils.  From this perch, I spied the City Palace, Observatory and the Water Temple.  I forgot my shoddy loudspeaker and as such was unable to perform an impromptu call to prayer, which was all the same considering my lacking ability to sense the direction of Mecca.  A poor imam, I would have been.

Next, I proceeded to the City Palace to explore hugely bright inner courtyards.  Central daises (dai?) abounded with pillared and mirrored supports.  To cool off I grabbed a memory-filled Sweet Ice Tea, which reminded me so clearly of the golfer-adorned equivalent in the States.  The armory was also magnificent with curling swords and decorated muskets that did well to hide their deathly intentions.  The missed Observatory entrance forced me to double back to check out a beautiful garden full of purposeful stone sculptures.  Their near abstract appearance paired with the beautiful soft yellow sandstone almost made me forget the scientific basis of their nature.  From a 27 meter gnomon to uniquely formed structures for each of the 12 signs of the zodiac, to other skater-park like dome indentations, my legs got a workout climbing up and down each one.  The meaningful shade of a tree beckoned to me and I lay down to celebrate the eye of this crazy city-storm.  It was not long before another rascal intoned to me the familiar mantra of "Chocolate, Money?" and I moved on to other shades, trophy in hand.  My camera was having another one of its periodic 'bad days' so I bought a disposal at about 2/3rds of my haggling potential and returned to try and capture the geometric beauty.

The empty zig-zag road led me around to a main street where I searched for the entrance to the Wind Palace.  The seat's towering edifice did not indicate that the entrance was 100 ft down the street, through a courtyard and back around again.  Up another circle within a square spiral, red spit stained each of the circle's four corners.  The edifice lived up to its shape as the Palace itself did not extend much beyond that immediate rise.  Like a purdah-caged Queen, I peered down on to the street giggling unseen by the passersby. 

The local bus to the Amber fort was waiting below after my plebian descent and I hopped on an into a seat.  I quickly hopped out again as an old woman boarded and took a difficult to get to seat next to the driver near the open window as it began to rain.  As would be the pattern by each successive fort I would visit in India, I was more shocked each time a new one loomed over me.  The audio guide quickly grabbed me with different voices and characters that entertained, but melded into one as I got progressively more and more lost within the fort and the dialogue.  With smaller courtyards as Agra, the guards' more relaxed stances and fewer locked doors, I dared to explore a bit more though with less urgency than previously.  Feigning lost innocence was always an option in this catacomb of courtyards, windowless passageways and servants' abodes.  The women's quarters in the rear with ceilingless walls perversely reminded me of the Colleseum.  I was subdued by the fact that it would later become a place for merchants' meetings.  By the end, I was furtively sneaking around bends, pressing audio guide numbers at random filling in my own narrative of the intrigues of palace life.  At many points I stopped and appreciated the militant position of the perched fort with outer walls climbing the opposing hills and an empty but internal lakebed resting in the crevice.  In the end, the fort was abandoned to form the city of Jaipur 11km down the road.  Walled intrigue lost its allure after a couple centuries.

Sunset waning, I walked down to the garden at the entrance to watch the sun set over the fort stretching myself across shaded grass.  I closed my eyes to envision the whole of the adventure, but it was not long before another rascalled group apparated and soon I heard the persistent sounds of mirthy mock snoring but 5 ft from my head.  In the battle of wills, I made the putt and they soon lost interest leaving me to relax temporarily.  Dog tired and ice cream rewarded, I BUSted out of there to the city and walked all the way home to my clubhouse.

I'm glad I shaved my facetious mustache.  There is no joking around with those things in this country.

Conversely, I did not have to shave my ears, which is an idea that some men in this country should be introduced to if they ever wish to visit my homeland.

They say that India tears at your heartstrings.  What they leave out is the fact that you must stoically wander through the pleading throngs with a poker face if you want to get anywhere.  It is an odd dichotomy to hold in one's mind.

They say that India reeks of humanity.  Yet, as cold as I must seem at the bus station not handing out food to children, it is a rare sight for me, myself, to be treated like a human and not a walking checkbook.  Once again, it is an extremely impersonal and personal experience. 

For example, beyond the vendors and rickshaw drivers, I was wandering around Red Fort in Delhi when a child kept trying to take pictures of me, obviously bemused by my appearance.  Trying to gently retort this rudeness, I pulled out my camera and took pictures of him with my camera in front of my face.  He was frustrated not understanding my subtle message, but persisted annoyingly.  Worst of all was the fact that his parents were right there smiling through the whole experience also not perceiving me to be human.

I wrote this at some point in transit:

"Dear India,

As heartbreaking as it is, and as cold as it makes me feel, I cannot feed your children, not your wide-eyes, nor your cleft lips, nor your wiggling handless arms.  I cannot feed you when you play when I'm not looking nor when you starve when I'm not there."

Waiting for some profound stories to get written about my trek through Nepal, I now find myself many experiences behind and a bit anxious.  So, those stories will have to wait until I have a bit more time.  They were going to be called "Hem the Gardener" and "Paul".  I last left this blog in Nepal on my way to Pokhara, the village around Annapurna.  The day spent there and my 3-day trek up Poon Hill (no joke) were going to be the topics of the aforementioned posts.

I left Pokhara on a 7am bus heading for Varanasi and on the way the Indian border. I was told this whole trip took about 15 hours, so when I hopped on the second bus at around 4:30pm I expected arrive around 11pm, right?  After 11 hours wrestling back and forth over 1.5 seats with a half sleeping man, I exited the bus in Varanasi at 3:30am with a gash on my arm and a B.O. aura to rival the Indians'.  Rufee'd by fatigue, I stumbled out of the bus and hopped in the first rickshaw I saw.  The man took me close to my requested guest house, which is to say, he stopped outside the dark alleyway and pointed.  When I asked him to lead me on for more money, he said, "Too many dogs."  Needless to say, we found another place down a shorter, more well-lit alleyway with fewer dogs.

I then spent the next 1.5 days touring Varanasi.  I went to Benares University, the silk market (including the silk making machines) and then toured the ghats and now-lit alleyways of the Old City.  The next day I woke up early to do a sunrise boat tour on the Ganges with people bathing in the toxic river for spiritual cleansing.  I also went to the Mughal fort across the river, which has a ton of cool colonial artifacts including many antique cars, carriages and weapons and reeks of the colonial aesthetic.

An overnight train later with some frogs and I found myself in Agra at 7am.  I hired a rickshaw for the day for too much money ($7.50), which I could tell by the man's eagerness to help me with my bag.  I saw the Taj Mahal and wandered barefoot around the beautiful monolith enjoying both the sight and the alternately silty and sticky feeling of my feet sliding over the recently rained upon marble.  I found a spot on the sunny side of the building that was in the shade of one of the beautiful minarets and hung out there for a while. 

Next, I went to the Fort in Agra, which was built as a fort converted into a palace and then served as a prison for the ruler who did the conversion.  He was imprisoned by his own son.  I loved wandering around the red brick fort that seemlessly joined with white marble hallways.  There were a million locked doors that seemed to make me lose my balance and go bumping into them with force.  Indians know how to lock their shit.  In fact, most doors were ornately decorated with small metal buds that, originally, were put there to prevent Elephant from ramming.  So, I had to be a little careful.  I did sneak through one door, but it only led me to a balcony in full view of a guard on watch.  Later, I tried to do the same on the outer wall, but was found out by some young Indian teenagers.  They were taken aback by my audacity, but secretly their warnings of real Indian jails (not just historical ones) led me to curtail the rest of my stumblings.

I met some Americans all at various levels of the Medical path (Pre-Med undergrads to Present-Med grads) who were in India for the summer.  They recognized me from my minaret perch at the TM.  As they tried to figure out a bad logistical snafu, I found the perfect place for my "almost died in a hospital in Calcutta" story.  They were left with a much better impression of me than I deserved.  Also, I managed to haggle down my day-long rickshaw rental by agreeing to go to a store where, in turn, the driver would get a kickback just for me perusing. This cost saving measure was foiled by me falling into the trap which consciously I agreed to and buying a souvenir for more than I had saved.

That night, I took a train ride from Agra to Delhi, fell into another late night rickshaw, got out in a sketchy traveler mecca, shopped around some hotels and settled on a windowless room with a fan.  I then got up and started searching for the Rajasthan government tourism office to set up a tour as well as a movie theatre with Indiana Jones showing.  I got frustrated by the first task and went searching around Connaught Place for the latter.  Apparently, Indian movie theatres only carry a show for a week, but I did make some friends who liked my hair and who subsequently led me to a friendly travel agency where I planned my whirlwind tour of Rajasthan (turbans, mustaches and Aladdin for those whoe don't know).

That night, I went out to a bar and met two people.  The first was a near-crazed Indian man who kept grabbing my bicep in excitement because he was permanently moving to Australia the next day.  He asked me for advice and I obliged having never been to Australia.  I also met a British-Australian man in his twenties and had a great conversation about sports.  Cricket was explained to me insofar as it's like baseball and therefore only fun in person on a sunny day after one too many beers.  That night I got horribly ill due to some bad spaghetti (I think it was the cheese) and winced at my non-refundable Rajasthan tour.  In a stroke of luck, my train the next day was canceled (rioting, damn fiesty Rajputs) and so I ended up springing for an 8-hour car ride to Ranthambore National Park to try and see some tigers.  I got to sleep off my bad stomach laying down in the back seat, which, fortuitously, prevented me from seeing how the man was driving and therefore another trip to boot-town.

This morning I woke up early and ran out to my "small gypsy".  At least that's what it sounded like when the man hollered to me as I was finishing my breakfast at 6am.  In fact, it was a small Jeep, which was marginally more (or less?) comfortable than the alternative.  The Jeep was open-topped for great range of viewing, especially of the cold rain that started to fall an hour into the trip.  There were TONS of peacocks, many of whom liked to perch on top of dead trees for striking pictures of their sky-backed profiles.  There were some pretty antelopes and deer, some with disproportionately large, and therefore sweet, antlers.  And, we did spot a tiger!  Encouraged by some footprints in the mud, the guide sniffed out his rotten carcass odour and caught him lying in some bushes 50 ft off the road.  His striped back was clearly visible and his tail would flick up every couple of minutes.  Eventually, he got up and walked off.  Only after this did our guide tell us that there hadn't been a spotting in over 5 days and that it's almost impossible to find them in the rain.  I felt very lucky.  Worn out by 10am, I hopped back in the car and slept arriving in Jaipur where I am currently.

With this as a skeleton, I hope to fill in some more of the details and stories later on...

Tongue in cheek to the NYTimes equivalent, I thought I'd make a post trying to illustrate the complications of seemingly simple financial interactions of this trip. Perhaps it will become my story to try and sell to WSJ.

I bought the 600 rupee ticket to Pokhara from the travel agent in the hotel. An enterprising man, he then offered split a cab to the station as he was on his way.  We hopped in his friends car and were off.  After the initial bartering at the hotel, I noticed he had said to me that the company only made 50 or 60 rupees himself.  I felt like stirring things up and my intuition told me the margin had to be larger.

Experimenting, I inquired further, implying the margin was bigger. The man said smilingly, "Not Possible, sir. I assure you we make only that much. You see my boss must pay a 25000 rupee deposit to get the three packets of 600 tickets each. Then, for every ticket we sell for 600 rupees, we must pay another 70 rupees to the bus company."

I paused calculatingly. 3 packets*600 tickets is 1800 tickets total. 25000 rupees deposit divided by 1800 would be around a 13 rupee deposit per ticket, I estimated. Then, they would pay 70 rupee more for every one they sold, which comes to a total cost of only 83 rupees per ticket for the travel agency. The margin would be the 600 rupee price minus the 83 rupee cost, a tidy 517 rupee profit.

When I explained this verbally to the man with me in the cab, he pleasantly reiterated, "Not possible. Only 50 or 60" his tone rising."

I kept talking, trying to convince him of what I knew to be truth. I stopped, "Maybe your boss tells you the company only makes 50 per ticket and he keeps the rest for himself." His neck snapped around like it had been spun on a giant ratchet. "Now this, this would make sense," he grumbled. "Tell me again your thinking," he said with urgency. I asked for some paper and started jotting down the numbers I had had in my head. He was looking more at me than at the paper. He was more confident in the fact that I was writing down numbers than in the numbers themselves. As I looked up after I finished, his face was already convinced. He took the sheet and said, "Tonight I drink some, you know,  and then we go talk to the boss," pounding his fist against his hand. I had given him the numbers and a plausible story. He chose what path he intended to take. I wonder what happened that night.

When you pay 250 Nepali Rupees ($3.62) for a hotel room, a game emerges where you try and find what's missing, much like an elementary school aptitude test.  Although there were fewer than 7 objects that prevented this room from being a concrete cube, I could see no fault upon first inspection.  There was a burned hole in the blanket from a cigarette long past, but nothing I hadn't seen in the motels of Vermont.  After I left to explore Kathmandu, I began to wonder if it was going to be my bag that was missing at the end of this misadventure.  My faithful sack could rent a room from them for quite some time with all its hawkable objects.  Alas, I returned to see my bag was still there.  Almost disappointed at my inability to solve this child's puzzle, I lifted the sheets and begin to climb into bed.  My feet slid in and I felt a change in texture.  Excited, I looked down and the bedsheets on both the mattress and blanket layers end unexpectedly about midway up my thigh.  A fan of old-timey pranks and general hoop-hollerin' myself, I smile, turn diagonal and go to sleep.

I got shortsheeted a second time in Pokhara, the town near Annapurna.  When I approached the manager, he smiled sheepishly as he told me there must've been a mistake.  I was paying 400 rupees ($5.88)!  Did he think he could just fleece me like that?  So I switched hotels and found a full set of sheets.  I went to shave one morning... no mirror in front of the sink.

Much like a clever family resort, Nepal gets you with the drinks.  You feel bad for the hoteliers whose product lies in the same price range.  Beer usually costs around 200 rupees with the only alternative being Raksi (aka Nepali wine) for 50 rupees.  I was told this drink was made from millet, though it had that distinctive taste of watered down whiskey...

The Pashupatinath Temple rests conveniently next to the airport.  Not having come from the airport, the cab ride over was a first for me.  Getting out and wandering a while, I remarked at the vendors with no tourist teat.  Up some steps and I find myself at a doorway that says, "Hindus Only."  Through it, I can see a gigantic cow replete with exercise ball size balls.  Obviously frustrated, I find myself chatting with a doctor from Darjeeling who, despite being allowed in, has chosen to decline on multiple occasions due to this exclusionary policy.

Another, seedier man hovers around us.  When the doctor leaves, this man leads me to the gate where I belong.  After my ticket, I am met by the infamous student-guide that lurks in these types of venues.  As a student, a slight graying at the temples undermines the youthful, dyed orange hair he sports.  As a guide, he turned out to be quite good.  He leads me to the holy river that trickles through the temple and meanders by the pieces of trash in the riverbed.  Disgusted by how these people treat the place where they sacrifice their dead, I put on my Western analytical face and begin to listen.

We first pass the platforms on which the pyres are made.  They are charred black when they are not in use.  One pyre burns in broad daylight.  Dutifully, my guide points out the charred hands and feet that poke out from the bonfire.  I wonder if I've ever seen a dead body before.  The man tending to the fire certainly has seen his share.  In fact, he seems to be the only man attending aside from a few sitting on a bench.  Through another doorway, we are faced by the full pantheon of Hindu gods.  Hidden in the cracks are the famously overt sexual carvings that my guide perceives me to be intensely interested in.  For a while, I had a family tree lined up for the gods.  All of a sudden, I hear "and then he swallowed it, turned blue and saved the universe" as his smile grows expectantly.  More than confused, I mumble out, "I wish I could save the universe."  This turned out to be an acceptable answer and we move on.

We cross to the other side of the river.  A pile of coffins lie haphazardly in the shade of small trees.  The coffins are from the Nepalis who have died abroad, in the West, or Malayasia.  Only the young try their luck outside of Nepal.  After their young deaths, they are put into a wooden one, then a flying one, then a rolling one to arrive here at the river to be unpacked.

Moving on, we pass a group of the holy men of the temple.  Their long, intricately arranged dreadlocks tell you they've been here before the student-guides and the photos.  Declining, we walk up to across from the expensive pyre places where a Japanese man bought a shrine.  I grab some water and some spearmint from a vendor on the grounds.  Finally, I walk down to the stadium-size steps and sit down, chewing away.  The student walks away with his 'donation' splitting it with the seedy man.

Disillusioned, I see a new particleboard coffin being carried in.  A crowd of 50 hovers and carries it quietly to above the steps to the river.  A pyre is quickly made and the last nails are removed.  The coffin and its padding from inside are discarded.  Indeed, who cares about this refuse at a time like this.  Red dust is spread over the white linen that remains.  The naked body resembles its state from its first doorway.  The fire is lit, bringing the ritual to a close.  Weeping, the crowd separates and wanders away until only the man tending the fire remains.

As I spit out my gum and walk through the first gate, an ambulance pulls up with another crowd in tow.

Feeling spoiled by my relatives in Singapore and my nice hotel in Calcutta (classic reservation mistake bump up to suite), I puritanically rewarded my sins by deciding to go overland to Kathmandu. Almost to a "T", it was like my middle school experience. Which is to say, despite my desperate efforts to make it seem alright, the tortures were always one step ahead of me.

First level, I had to take a 16 hour sleeper train to the border.  After 3 such rides already, this was standard.  I even had the bottom bunk.  But, as you find out in middle school, the hard part wasn't getting to the dance, or even asking a girl for one, but dealing with that 3" vertical deficit.  The man across from me was a snorer, and a deaf one at that.  Some snore loud enough to wake themselves up, some are immune from even their own sheer volume.  In the darkness, my mind zoomed in to picture the noise.  Tiny villi vibrated violently, almost tearing loose from their place in the nasal wall.  Just as they were about to reach that breaking point, the rhythm would change unpredictably.

Second level, "alighting" from the train, I met a well-dressed Nepalese man who offered to accompany me through the border, Rauxal in India to Birgunj in Nepal.  Two rickshaws later and we're off like Ben Hur.  How fortuitous, one might say. I look behind me, searching for my friend's slower chariot, and see a massive rain cloud and its gray veil steadily approaching.  I hop out at the India Immigration Office, pay my first bribe (of many, hopefully) to a government official in the form of a 100 rupee "departure card fee" (proud, Mom?).  We're back on the road again, my driver pumping the pedals like in a mountain stage of the Tour de France.  It hits, not the warm rain of Calcutta, but the icy cold pellets of the Himalayan foot hills.

Third level, a Nepalese visa later (no bribe, mind you) and I enter the travel arrangements office.  Because of the rain, there are no flights.  I couldn't skip a grade to the promised land of high school.  The bus is 9 hours.  An Indian man offers for me to share a taxi with his family, only 5 hours.  I ask how.  The bus loops.  The taxi's line is straight.  I walk outside to squirming, squeeling children and anticipate a crude Sartrian hell.  "I can deal with it," I say.  Wrong again!  Dante got it right the first time.  Topographically speaking, a straight line is not always straight.  Climbing up roads of alternating tattered pavement and loose stones, we clatter together four across. The children are silent.  My chosen window seat leaves me with a bruised left arm as the four of us play the most vicious unsmiling game of jello, in the back seat, of course.  As if that wasn't enough, the driver would honk before rounding corners on the one lane road.  This seemed pointless to me because A) the honks were too late for any action to be taken in response and B) the honk itself prevented you from hearing the honk from the opposing car thereby nullifying the action's intent.  This practice resulted in multiple screeching stops, sometimes the last breath of inertia being spent mere feet from 100-ft cliffs and inches from the other car.  The drivers would laugh to each other, then cackle to themselves, "Death, I fooled you this time."  It all was so horrible I just found myself laughing, just like how I can laugh about middle school now.