October 3, 2014

The Big Day – Part I

Hey Everybody, I took a nap! Today was the day of the mass and reception. Spent much of the morning doing a final proofreading of my father’s book. Then, spent time reviewing and practicing the reading that I was going to do in church. Tried to keep the eating in check. Around 3:30 pm, I decided that I should take a nap as the evening and night would be full and I was not sure how late we would get home. Was dead to the world for about 30 minutes when I heard my mother and brother calling me. Woke up and, soon after drinking my mandatory tea, proceeded to get ready.

The previous day, I had bought a nice, white churidar to go with my white, embroidered kurta. Had given it a quick wash to soften it but probably should not have; was not easy to iron. Got dressed, put on my mojaris, and took my dress shawl with me. Thankfully, my parents and I were heading to the church in my brother’s air-conditioned car.

Traffic was light; we got to the church 30 minutes early. Suffered the hot and humid weather as we met the two priests and some relatives and friends outside. At this point, my brother-in-law said, with a smile, “So, I heard that you took a nap!” The previous day, he had said that he had heard that I got an upgrade. Not surprised that he knew this as I had made it public knowledge. But, my taking a nap was news? I asked if he had spies keeping him updated on my doings. As I have said in another post, I feel 25. So, I take a nap maybe twice a year, if that. So, why had someone passed on this bit of trivia? Don’t know; don’t care but thought everyone else might find this shocking or something. So, there you have it!

After about 15 minutes, we sat in the side wing of the church with some relief provided by the fans. There was a mass, in Gujarati, in progress with hymns accompanied on Indian instruments. When it ended, we entered the main part of the church. Here we were met by some more friends and relatives and the lady who wanted to make sure everything went smoothly. My parents, my siblings, brother-in-law, and I were going to walk up the aisle. My younger sister was going to do the first reading; I was going to do the second. She gave us a heads up on our cues.

My parents were to sit by themselves  in two, special seats up in front and the rest of us were to occupy the first pew. Everything went well except: my parents started walking up the aisle when the music started instead of when the singing (Beethoven, no less) started, I flubbed one word of the reading, and there was a lull in the proceedings as the younger priest asked for the book of vows to be brought—forgetting that my parents did not want to go through the renewal of vows.

It was a moving experience to see my parents in the very same church in which they were married 60 years ago, to the day. I can only imagine what they may have been thinking and feeling during the service.

After the mass ended, we socialized a bit. Unfortunately, a few friends and relatives could not make it to the reception. We left the church and arrived at the hall about 30 minutes early. As my parents and I entered, I could hear the instrumental version of “Please Release Me!” being played. Ernie Flannigan, the singer musician who was dressed like a Mexican gangster in full black attire including black bandana (only the waistcoat was missing), and his two sidekicks were playing recorded instrumental music before the reception started at 8 pm. When he came up to us, I said, “Poor choice of music, boss!” He laughed apologetically and said there would not be any more inappropriate songs.

October 2, 2014

Spent a few hours in the morning, with my father, going over the drawings that I had brought with me. We selected and photographed around 18 drawings, uploaded them to his computer, edited them, and added them into his manuscript in CorelDraw. Had to retake some and discard some photographs going by how they looked at reduced size and their relative merits—as space was limited. Also, photographed the two small sculptures that I had brought with me. As we were doing so, my father remembered that there was another wire sculpture that was on display in my parents’ bedroom. Photographed that one and added it to the book.

While my father was editing the images, it was interesting to note how we independently picked the exact same “sweet spots” for Exposure, Contrast, and Light Fill for each and every image. In other words, regardless of which one of us was doing the editing the final images would have looked the same. Guess we both have the same “eye” for visual detail.

At night, we finally went to Soam to eat chaat. We got there, at 9 pm, only to find a good size crowd waiting to get in. We had forgotten that it was a holiday. Adding to the crowd, were a number of young children up way past their bedtimes. We had to wait about 45 minutes to be seated. Then spent about 20 minutes eating. This was probably the longest I have ever waited to be seated at a restaurant.

For most of the time that we were waiting, I sat alone outside. It was interesting to watch some kids playing games on smartphones and talking about games, as well. Also, noticed that two, unrelated women walked into the restaurant barefoot. Could not make sense of this as it had rained and the roads were wet.

When space became available in the waiting area within the restaurant, I joined my parents and older sister inside. While we were waiting we were subjected to loud noises from two kids and the adults with them. I love that kids they delight in simple things. The 5 year old girl appeared to consider it a major accomplishment each time she climbed up 4 stairs, descended them one at a time (usually by hopping) and landing on the floor of the waiting area. At which point, she let out an overly loud squeal of delight. Annoying as hell!

Later, when we were seated—unfortunately right near the entrance and the waiting area, the two kids both screamed out loud for no apparent reason other than, perhaps, seeking attention. All this time, no one said anything to the loud adults or the children. Now, the maitre d’ could not take it anymore. He scolded the kids and warned them that he would lock them up if they did not behave. This produced the undesired effect of the kids laughing at him. Thankfully, they did quieten down.

I had Bhel Puri and Pani Puri. Both were very good; the Pani was excellent. However, the sugarcane juice was not cold enough to be truly pleasing. Research in Social Psychology has found that subjects tend to assign higher than objective value to an outcome for which they had to expend greater effort. I do not know if this phenomenon, Effort Justification, played a role in our enjoyment of our chaat. However, it was worth the wait.

1 October 2014

Have been eating excellent, home-cooked vegetarian food prepared by a Maharashtrian cook, who knows the meaning of spicy! The first night, I was only able to sleep for two hours. The second night, perhaps the single mug of beer helped as I crashed at 10:30 pm. Slept a very sound 6 hours. Woke up at 4:30 am. Both days felt fine all day. No jet lag!

Contacted by 4 different means by former classmates at Campion School. Each informed me about the two, upcoming get-togethers. Unfortunately, I cannot make either of them.

It’s 6 pm now and there have been signs of another storm brewing. Had to cancel plans to go to Bandra to take in a private screening of a documentary on the history of Jazz in India. Had cancelled the Chaat Expedition for that. Oh, well! Instead went to dinner at Chetana’s, with Austin. We had Rajasthani Thalis. Food was excellent with the exception of the indifferent Kitchari.

Had meant to order a beer but switched to a Bloody Mary as Austin chose that and I had not had one in 30 years. Big mistake! Very tomatoey with little or no hint of vodka. Amusingly, came with green chili stuck on the glass rim. Should have called a Virgin Mary or Tomato Juice with salt and chili. One of the foulest  things I have ever tasted. To make matters worse, for some reason, I drank way too much water and Jal Jeera. Would estimate that I drank at least 1 liter of fluids. Felt uncomfortable for hours after that. Maybe, I was trying to erase the awful taste of the Tomato Mary.

30 September 2014

One more detail from the first flight. The crew and the food on Korean Air are always good. I thought that I had specified the Asian or Oriental-Vegetarian meal but had been tagged with Ovo-Lacto Asian-Vegetarian. Yet, at dessert time, somehow the crew assumed that I did not consume dairy products. So, I had to ask for ice cream if I wanted some. At the end of one meal, the other option was one of two or three cheeses and fruit. The blue cheese looked interesting and I asked for it.

It was a decision that was well-rewarded. The cheese, a Bleu de Gex or (more likely) Bleu d’Auvergne, was outstanding. After every bit, I literally exclaimed, “Wow! Wow!” The wonderfully complex and subtle flavors delighted the palate. I am at least 90% vegan. This cheese has singlehandedly sabotaged my plan to turn 100% vegan. It really was that good! But, then again, I may have the discipline to live without it. After all, three weeks ago, I finally kicked my daily chocolate habit.

Lately, Hawaii has been going through a hellish period of heat and humidity. A few days ago, when I had compared the weather, Mumbai was actually 2 degrees cooler than Kaneohe. Unfortunately, two or three days before my arrival that changed. Even at night, it had been oppressive. The temperature has been as high as 93 F / 34 C. Add to that the soupy humidity and death seemed preferable at times. Even with ventilation and fans blasting away, sweat kept sprouting faster than could be wiped away.

Around 6:30 pm, my older sister and walked around the neighborhood to run some errands. As it grew dark, without any warning, a torrential downpour of biblical proportions hit South Mumbai. Everyone ran into buildings or stayed as far within any shelter they could find. The son of the owner of “George Electric” led us through a narrow, covered passage in between two buildings, to the front of the Metro building. From there we walked, mostly under shelter, until we were directly opposite my parents’ apartment building. Even under shelter, four feet away from the street, we were being sprayed as the wind was whipping away in a frenzy. There were also “thunderbolt and lightning-very very frightening!”

The rain was welcome in that it would result in cooler temperatures for a little while but its intensity was beyond belief. When the rain eased a little, we finally dashed across the side street to Leopold Cafe and from there across the main road, Colaba Causeway. We ran into the lobby of Esperanca, where at least 30 office and bank workers were huddled waiting to go home. I said out loud to no one in particular, “Go out there. It’s good for you!” My sister and I were lucky in that some 10 seconds of drenching could easily be dealt with.

Turned out that my father had anticipated the coming of this storm but not its ferocity. My mother said, more than once, that it was the “Return Monsoon” that occurs every year but that this was the worst ever. Our plan to have Chaat (Bhel Puri, Sev Puri, Dahi Batata Puri, and Pani Puri), on my first night home, had to be shelved. My brother came over a little later and we ordered take-out from Bade Miya. Good stuff! The rain knocked out the Cable TV service depriving at least some homes of “Kaun Banega Crorepati?” (The Indian version of “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?” featured in the worst movie I have ever seen “Slumdog Millionaire.”)

Flight to Mumbai, 28 & 29 September 2014

Returning to Mumbai for my parents’ 60th Wedding Anniversary. The past few weeks have been a mad crunch of getting things planned, scheduled, and completed. Being organized is an ongoing challenge for me; so, I rely on lists in an attempt to be efficient. A week or more before my flight, I had created three lists: things to take, things to bring back, and spices (with specific quantities) that I needed. That was in addition to my regular task-management using the gTasks Pro app.

Would have been ready well ahead of time if it were not for the fact that only two days before my flight, my father asked if I could bring “at least 12 of your drawings” to include in his autobiography. I took that to mean bring the actual works; he may have meant bring some photos. I spent over 2 hours going through every single one of my drawing pads—some 9 years worth of Life Drawings. I pulled out the sheets that had one or more drawings that I liked. The next day, I culled about 20 sheets, placed them between large, cardboard pieces and put that in the giant pocket of one suitcase.

A couple of days before my flight, I set myself two goals—I was going to get upgraded for free and I was going to try to converse with the passenger seated next to me. I accomplished both tasks.

First, I chatted up the cutie at the Korean Airlines counter. Asked her to work her magic and upgrade me. She replied that she could not. Tried some more charm and she said, “Believe me, I would upgrade myself if I could!” Still encouraged her to do what she could. Got checked in and mentioned that I had been concerned about the weight of my bags and the little angel replied, “Oh! I didn’t bother to check.”

At the TSA checkpoint, young, good-looking and sharp-looking, male seemed to be eyeing me suspiciously. Yet, when my turn came, I looked him straight in the eye and he nodded and pointed me in the direction of the low risk or quick frisk or whatever-they-call-it channel. Less fortunate individuals had their palms swabbed and were subjected to other indignities.

Walked a mile to get to Gate 28. Sat around waiting trying to get a reliable WiFi connection. Took to wandering around the waiting area like a mad diviner searching for the source of power. Gave up and used my Personal Hotspot instead. Updated my iPad with some reading material for the flights. Was just about done, when boarding started.

A few minutes later, amid the din of restless passengers, I barely discerned my name being announced on the PA system. Wonder to myself, “Now what?” Had TSA confiscated my drawings as porn? Did they think the Lychee Vodka was an accelerant? Or that my small, ceramic sculptures were disguised explosives? [On seeing the photos, my father asked me to bring that sculpture and the bent wire one with me.]

I walked up to the counter and was greeted by a friendly man who smiled and informed me that I had been upgraded to Business Class for free! He apologized that it was a window seat and asked if that was Ok. I said, “Hey, if it’s an improvement, I will take it!” Walked away to wait as I never rush to board a plane. About a minute later, went back up to him and asked if it was “the girl at the counter who had upgraded me.” When he said, “Yes.”, I immediately replied, “Tell her I want to marry her!” We both laughed and I added, “At least, tell her that I said, ‘Thank You!’” and he said that he would. He then realized that I could cut through the line and enter from the Business entrance and escorted me as he parted the sea of passengers in front of us. Felt very VIP-like.

Boarded the plane, climbed the stairs up to Business Class, and was directed to a window seat next to an attractive, young lady. We smiled at each other as soon as we made eye-contact. So, with goal number 2 in mind after barely sitting down, I asked where she was going and she said, “Mongolia.” I had correctly surmised that she was not Korean.

We chatted on-and-off during the flight. Turned out she had spent 3 months in San Francisco on a working vacation as a chef, then two weeks in Hawaii on vacation. Now, she was headed back home to graduate, in Hotel Management, this December.

We talked about a number of things, including food from our countries and Hawaii, snippets of our histories, relationships between neighboring countries and Mongolia, yoga, etc. Turned out that she is half-Kazakh and half-Mongolian. She had lived in Russia for 12 years and spent 6 months in Australia learning English, which apparently is not taught in school. She spoke English well and, besides Mongolian, speaks a smattering of Russian and Kazakh.

The roomy, “ adjustable-in-more-ways-than-one-could-imagine” seat, the charming company, and the four course meals helped make the flight more pleasant but the duration no less tedious. Could not sleep.

At Incheon Airport, I had planned to get upgraded again. Unfortunately, I asked at the gate and was informed that it was too late. Later, when I asked what the time frame was, I was told that I should have asked at the Korean Air counter not at the gate. By then it was too late. Even so, the flight to Mumbai was not bad and, for a change, I actually got some sleep. Now that I know, I plan on charming my way to free upgrades on both return flights.

While taxiing at Incheon, some kind of Indian fusion music was piped through the craft. On landing in Mumbai, another fusion piece, presumably entitled “Namaste” was played; “Namaste” being the only word that interrupted the dreadful noodling. This was some fluff piece played by a Kenny G-wannabe, on a soprano sax, accompanied by Indian instruments. If it was, in fact, that crapmeister I will burn him in effigy.

Walked another mile to get to Immigration. Breezed through Immigration, Baggage Claim, and Customs. Customs waved me through, only asking to scan my carryon. Less than 40 minutes all together from plane to exit. Met by my older sister and my parents.

Forgot to mention that, at one point, A* asked the question I do not want to be asked. I feel 25 and act 12; so, age really is just a number. She asked how old I was. When I told her, she looked skeptical but replied with the response I did not want to hear, “Oh! Same age as my mother.” Then, bless her, she added, “You do not look it at all!”

*I do not mention her name out of respect for her privacy. However, it turns out that every woman in Mongolia has the same name. If you don’t believe me, look it up yourself.

Random Observations on Flying from Honolulu to Mumbai

I hate flying which is why I return to Mumbai so rarely. I last flew home in 2004. Then and the previous two times I had been excited in anticipation, enjoyed every minute in India, and did not want to leave. This time around, strangely, I felt nothing in the weeks leading up to my trip. Not until I had a nightmare two nights before my departure. In that dream I vividly saw myself being escorted to my seat by a flight attendant, taking my seat, and then suddenly panicking as I realized that I had forgotten to check in and could not remember what had become of my luggage. I ran off the plane and scrambled about searching for the terminal and counter for the airline. The whole place was deserted except for two identically dressed homeless men. I woke up afraid that I missed my flight only to realize it was a nightmare. That made my impending trip finally seem real.

Did all my packing the previous night. Despite a couple of delays the next morning I make it to the airport 5 minutes late by my timeline. I deliberately chose to be at the airport 1.5 hours before departure. I headed to the Korean Airlines counter only to find a long line of passengers who may had the same bright idea as I did. All the same, I was proud to be the last in line … until 10 minutes later a Korean couple showed up to snatch my dubious distinction.

Everyone seemed to check in smoothly except me. Somehow Delta had not passed on all of the information to its partner KAL. Took 15 minutes to sort out. Next, I go through the security screening without incident. Just when I think it will all go smoothly from there, I head to the waiting area to find a wall of 5 police officers scanning the herd. The shortest one, probably compensating for his size, decides to stop me. Or perhaps he did so as my newly sprouted Van Dyke made me look South American. I got drilled with questions about where I live, what I do, the purpose of my trip, how much money I was carrying, etc. Is this lame racial profiling or should I be grateful that they are taking no chances? Either way, next time I’m going to carry drugs to make it worth the interrogator’s while.

Finally, we board. I get to my seat only to find that my confirmed seat was not mine. I had been moved to the worst seat on the plane–the middle of the 5 seats in the center of the plane. Young Korean couple to the left; thirty/fortysomething males to the right. I’m not biased but I had acquired a mildly negative impression of Koreans from previous experience. I had found Korean ground crew, passengers, and residents to be aloof and cold. This time I am pleasantly surprised to find the crew and the passengers on both sides of me to be pleasant.

I had requested a vegetarian meal. KAL was not aware of this or were they? The flight attendant tells me she will see what she can do. Few minutes later she returns and informs me that she found just one or they do not have one or something. Language barrier. Happily, she returns a little later with the entree, gives me a peek, and asks if it was suitable. It was.

An hour into the flight, the pilot welcomes us with the usual flight number, weather conditions, flight time, etc. He ends with “we will be landing at Icheon Airport, in Seoul, South Korea a little before 4 pm on the 14th of … of …” What the? Help! Get me off this plane! The pilot does not know which month it is!

If you want to be fed first on a plane ask for a special meal. My meal arrives. Pop open the foil to be greeted by curried mushrooms, rice, and steamed green beans. Taste it. Yummy. The curry was similar to Japanese curry but with three varieties of mushrooms and nothing else. There was also a salad, a roll, and dessert. Good meal but not filling. My neighbors had been served. The Korean meal was mostly vegetarian except that the entree had a generous amount of ground beef in it. i also spy a seaweed soup and Korean chilie paste in a tube. Hey, no fair! Where’s my soup and chilie? I love soup, i love seaweed, I love chilie.

I’m a firm believer that “it never hurts to ask.” So, I wait until the crew has served everyone and then hit the call button. I ask if they happen to have an extra soup and some chilie paste and the flight attendant smiles politely and says she’ll look. A few minutes later, she returns with the soup and TWO tubes of chilie paste. Bless her heart! The soup with the paste was as good as I had imagined. But, what’s this? While the men to my right had used all of their chilie paste, the guy to my left was wasting 2/3rds of his. I can’t take my eyes off the tube. I sit there wishing i had paid more attention to how magicians and pickpockets use misdirection to palm a prized item. Small recompense. When we land, I snag his nuts. The unopened peanuts that he left behind, that is.

I keep checking the time. After 5 hours, I cannot take it anymore!

My Comprehensive Oral Exam?

After the madness of the last stretch to and outside the airport, everything went smoothly until Immigration. I was even allowed 4 kilos excess baggage at no charge; basmati rice, tea, pickles, and spices, among other things, add up!

When one approaches Immigration at Mumbai’s airport, it is not clear what to do and eventually one takes a gamble on which line will move the fastest. On arrival, a European girl and I looked at each other mystified as to where to go until someone in uniform gestured for us to join a particular line. It was relatively short and looked promising. However, as we approached the end of the line, I spotted a shorter line and suggested she join that one, as she had informed me that she was exhausted. Unfortunately, somehow I got through Immigration much sooner than she did; felt a little embarrassed.

My Immigration Officer was Maharastrian, as they all seemed to be. He was young but bore a startling resemblance to Rowan Atkinson’s Mr Bean. Sadly, he was about as inanimate as Bean is animated. His MO was as follows: look at the next person in line, take the passport and papers proffered by the passenger, examine and stamp said documents, and then loudly slap them on the counter to indicate he was done. Throughout the process he said nothing, never changed expression, or even acknowledged the presence of the passenger–after the initial glance.

On Departure, perhaps the fates wished to restore some balance. For here, I encountered Ms Chirpy. As I approached the lines at Immigration, I had spied two counters to my left that had only one passenger each. Seemed impossible but I took my chances and picked one. And what do you know? The passenger at the other counter was done first. Luckily for me, young, cute, short, chubby Maharastrian lady stood up, smiled, and waved for me to come over.

She was pleasant and friendly as I handed her my documents. She examined my passport in silence and then quickly looked up, smiled, and inquired, “Psycho-lo-gist?” [That’s psychologist pronounced the way some Indians do.]

“Excuse me?”

“Psycho-lo-gist?” she repeated with a smile and an all-India head wag.

“Yes.”

Then while studying the main page of my passport–that is, without looking up, she inquired, “Who is that fellow …?”

[That fellow would be me? Or, you’ve heard of my father (famous advertising man)?]

“… who wrote about the Oedipal Complex and all that?”

“Oh! Freud.”

“Do you believe in him?”

[I believe in Freud the Father, Jung his Son …]

“Some of it …”

More silence as she continues to examine my documents. Then, unexpectedly, I hear:

“And, what about the Prisoner’s Dilemma?”

“What about it?” Then I chuckle and ask, “Is this my exam?”

She beams and replies, “No! No! I have not studied psychology. I am only trying to remember what I have read.” We share a laugh.

Further silence as she starts to wrap things up–stamping and all. But, then, she asks, “Do you get Freud’s Dream Theory?”

[Lady, in my present condition (no sleep, journey through madness outside, about 1 am, etc) I do not get my ABCs!]

I mumble, “Some of it is interesting” or something.

We share a smile as though we had connected on a first date and I was done.

Aloha Mumbai!

The return flights to Hawaii were uneventful. Nothing in my face or lying on the floor. However, some diversion and amusement was provided prior to the flight from Mumbai. The most memorable of which was provided by the Immigration Officer, no less.

I dislike waiting. So, I like to leave for the airport as late as I can possibly get away with. However, when I rely on someone else for a ride, I have less of a choice. Until the last two miles of the drive to the airport, it looked as though I would be very early. Then things changed suddenly. We crawled to a halt and then came to a standstill. I surmised correctly that lanes ahead had been closed.

As we approached the flyover right before the airport, we saw that it had been closed; for some reason, blocked by a taxi parked across the lanes. There was what appeared to be one “crazy” person in plain clothes directing traffic and, a little further up, another. Some 50 feet ahead, as traffic squeezed from 5 lanes to 2, there were 5 policemen in various states of uselessness–faltus. One was talking on his cellphone. Two others were engage in conversation, oblivious to the creeping traffic besides them. Another, with a notebook tucked under his elbow, was walking up and down gesturing in a manner that may have been related to the traffic. The fifth officer stood with his arm cocked with his wrist limp, in the way one might do in parody of a gay man, and repeatedly flapped his fingers upward in a feeble gesture of directing traffic.

Those last 2 miles took 45 to 60 minutes to complete. At the airport, there was chaos outside. Cars, taxis, hired cars, auto-rickshaws, and who knows what else were stopped or moving in a haphazard manner. Prevailing over this madness were police officers and soldiers armed with automatic weapons. The car horns and people talking at various volumes were punctuated by whistles blown by the soldiers and yelling by drivers who took offense at being asked to move.

Waiting in line outside the airport, I heard a man yelling some 15 feet behind me. “You shut up!” “Just shut the **** up!” etc. During the 17 days that I had spent in Mumbai and 2 days in Khandala, I never witnessed an accident, a fight, or even an argument. This despite the fact that the sidewalks are crowded and the streets chaotic. Unfortunately, this man broke the spell. Later, at the Korean Airlines counter, I heard his wife gently chide him for his conduct. He explained that the other man was “not allowing my girl to go by.” Apparently, the stroller in which his daughter sat was blocked by the other man.

The encounter with the Immigration Officer deserves its own post.

Familiar-Unfamiliar

Written on Dec 20, 2012

When traveling to parts unknown, the potential for excitement and adventure is limitless. There are experiences waiting to be had. However, there are exceptions. Sometimes, the effect may be diminished to the extent that a monument or site has been viewed repeatedly via some medium, such as the Net, TV or print. For example, if one has seen images of the Taj Mahal or the Eiffel Tower prior to visiting these monuments, the impact is blunted. In fact, it can be a challenge to reconcile the three-dimensional encounter with the familiar two-dimensional experience. One’s appreciation may be attenuated. The impact of the familiarly unfamiliar.

On the other hand, when one returns home after a prolonged absence, one finds oneself adjusting or reconciling to the unfamiliarly familiar. This applies to people, objects, food, and locations. Faces may be recognizable but aged. Objects and locations may have been aged, damaged, renovated, replaced, or otherwise changed. Food, if one has cooked the local fare, may taste different owing to subtle or gross differences in flavorings or technique.

In unfamiliar places, novelty is valued and sought. In familiar places, novelty may be somewhat disorienting and the comfort of the old may be preferred. Where an experience falls on the familiarity-unfamiliarity continuum depends primarily on the frequency and duration of past exposure to the stimulus in question and whether the experiences were first hand or via one or more media.

Globalization and telecommunication have disrupted the experience of both the familiarly-unfamiliar and unfamiliarly-familiar. With the spread of franchises, such as McDonalds, Dominoes, and Starbucks, and chain and luxury stores and dealerships, such as Benneton, Rolex, and Audi, foreign products are available in many countries. Yet, the availability of specific products and/or the characteristics of these products may be different from their country of origin. Hence, again one is faced with the unfamiliarly familiar. Video calls and image and video updates allow one to see familiar faces and locations from afar–albeit in two-dimensional form. This makes the potentially unfamiliarly-familiar more familiar.

Direct experience of the familiar and the unfamiliar would be quite different were it not for various media shading the degrees of familiarity.

Shrinking Population

Walking around parts of Mumbai, I have been struck by how short most of the younger generation is. Years ago, I had read somewhere that successive generations were getting taller. So, I looked it up.

Turns out this may not be true.

http://abcnews.go.com/Technology/t/story?id=98438&page=1

With rare exceptions, at 5’9″, I tend to tower over the under 25 crowd. Some 60 percent of the Indian population is under the age of 25. Unless they adopt some serious family planning, in 20 to 30 years, India will be a nation of billions of tiny people.