More Than Just Steps

Depending on which ghat you are visiting there may be as many as a hundred steps leading down the banks and into the Ganges. I had never thought of a stairway to heaven as leading down, but that's how it is in Varanasi. The capital of Hindu spirituality sits along the only part of the Ganges that flows from south to north. The city crowds the banks, with buildings no more than half a dozen yards from the water's edge. If you look up on the walls you can see the flood line from the monsoon season. In some places it's as high as twenty feet above your head. Small wonder that no building has a groundfloor less than forty feet or so above the water. A walkway follows the water connecting the ghats and allowing you to walk freely from to the next. Were it not for the signs I would not have any idea when one ghat ended and the next began.

Starting as early as five AM locals devotees and pilgrims make there way down to bathe in the Mother Ganga. Much like the hajj and Mecca, every Hindu is expected to come and take a dip in the holy waters of this river. It washes away sins. Liberates one from the fetters of karma and samsara. For some it is the penultimate vehicle for moksha. Simply being in Varanasi is auspicious. To die there is thought assure a cessation of the cycle of rebirth. To place one's ashes in the river is thought to do the same.

Along the shore are dozens of devotees, bathers, dhobis, priests, and boatmen. If you walk anywhere near the water you will no doubt be solicited by dozens of hawkers selling necklaces or post cards, verycheapverycheapgoodprice, beggars and sadhus hands out for alms, boatmen asking if you want to take a ride. On the road down to the water are people selling water bottles to take some of the water home with you. There's also sandal wood, flower offerings, jewelry, sweets, chillums (hash pipes), idols, and of course, tea. If you go out into a boat the same people have a naval version; a skiff filled with the same trinkets like carved elephants and snow globes. The boats are filled by tourists. It's not really such a bad thing though; it keeps the banks less crowded and gives a unique opportunity to see the city. We took two such trips, one at sunset and the other at sunrise. Most impressive for me however was the sunset cruise.

As you head down stream from the main ghat you pass by a few sewage treatment plants. There are only about three and then about 20 untreated sewage dumps into the water. It's a filthy river. As our boat moved in the darkness we neared one well lit ghat. Burning brightly were half a dozen funeral pyres. This is just another of the reasons people come to Benaras/Varanasi/Kashi. For their final resting. As we sat in the boat four men carried a women down the steps in the water. The clown in Hamlet would say she's neither man or woman, but dead. She was draped in white, the sign of a widow. After a final bath in the waters her family brought her back up the steps and went to prepare the pyre. A minimum of 200 Kgs of wood is needed. Ghee is poured on the body and the wood. Sandal wood offerings are placed in the pyre. After five circumnambulations around the body the son lights the pyre. I watched all this happening, unaware of who it was or what had brought them to the river then. Well death obviously. But more than that I cannot say. Throughout the entire rite was what I later described as a beautiful honesty. There is no celebration of the dead, or mourning of the loss, instead there is a deceased family member put to rest. Little more. There is ceremony and ritual, but also an implicit fatalism. Every person that night understood it was a only a matter of time before it was them on that pyre. No one tried to hide the fact. The dead were dead. No makeup, no suit, no wake, no meal, no sermon, no scripture, no attempt to recreate their presence. A farewell was made and a fire lit. I've never seen death so public and open. Why not though? It'll happen to all of us, so why hide it?

The World is not Shaped to Me

My knees touch the plane seat in front of me. My feet hang off the bed. So long as there is no footboard. People on the train brush my feet as they walk down the aisle of the sleeper car. In the chair car I sit quite upright. I stoop in the shower. My shoe covers at the Taj aren't large enough for my shoes. On a touring bicycle my knees come higher than the handle bars. I wear an XXL. So it goes in India. These things aren't important; they have just been some of the things that occur to me frequently on our northern tour.

We left Chennai ten days ago. A day after three sumptuous turkeys and some wonderful mashed potatoes, we boarded a flight for Delhi. The last few days were spent with friends, getting email addresses, and making sure you picked up that knick knack you've been eyeing these past few months. Upon arrival in Delhi there was an unsuprising haze over the city. Counter to my epectations, however, New Delhi was fairly clean. Though there are a number of pigs running around the city (interesting when near a mosque) litter was minimal and I don't notice much smog. Bangalore was far worse in that regard. With wide streets and plenty of places to see, Delhi proves far better than my expectations would have it. There's ample street food that is varied and delicious. No one got sick from it either. Unfortunately the cabs are quite expensive, but at least they run on natural gas.

From Delhi we boarded a train that took us out to the Pink City, Jaipur, in Rajastan. In reality it's more of a terra cotta color though. It was painted pink in the 19th century for the arrival of the Prince of Wales. I guess they liked it. Arid and dusty it reminded me a great deal of the Southwest, with a vast array of browns and tans, making a dusty rainbow across the hills. Jaipur boasts a number of hill top palaces and forts, replete with elephants to bear you to the top. For a fee of course. The strangest part was all the westerners. If Scotland was a desert it would look like this. Someone made the argument that with all the castles and forts it's much like a tour of Europe. At the Amber Fort it was hard to tell you were in India with all the white faces.

After leaving the Pink City we headed for a few days of "roughin' it" out in a couple of national parks. While most of us didn't get to see any tigers at Ranthambore we spent two very pleasant days in jeeps roaring around the park looking at deer, birds, and one crocodile. The park was quiet and serene. Lots of trees and tall grass. Plenty of deer. It was just a beautiful place, a valley between rocky cliffs full of life and emptied of people.

And then there was the Taj Mahal. I won't drone on about it. But I will say this much; it matched expectation. I was not overwhelmed by it. I will not say it is the most beautiful human structure on the planet. It is however a remarkable structure, from the minarets to the minutiae, every detail thoroughly planned. It's really big too.

Hanging Out

An aspect of our trip that has it's good and bad aspects is the extended stay at Madras Christian College. For me it's meant making friends here on the campus and getting to know a number of people that are not from Tamil Nadu. Other people have said they would have rather been able to do a homestay with a family so that they could better understand regular life in India. If anything though, MCC has provided many of us a great opportunity to get to know other people our age.

My friendships here at MCC have largely been made with guys from St Thomas Hall, one of the three men's hostels here on campus. The other two halls are Bishop Heber and Selaiyur. Much of the friendships I have made here however are thanks to an already existent friendship between Brian Orland of Davidson and Aiyappa KA of Thomas hall. The two became friends two years ago when Brian was here with Davidson, but really took off over the summer when Brian came back to Tambaram for the summer. So fulfilling our promise to Brian, early in September Ethan and I made our way over to Thomas hall to find Aiyappa. It took a little bit of effort but eventually we found him. An amicable guy we found him and the other guys friendly and welcoming.

After the breaking the ice I have continued to frequent Thomas hall. One of the pleasantries of living here on the campus is the prevalance of English speakers. While even rickshaw drivers know a few words of English it would difficult for me to ask them about the social significance of the lungi. The halls afford an opportunity to speak with educated people our own age, essentially, our peers. Now don't get the wrong impression. One of the more significant things we have been able to do here is talk with people that we no nothing of, and they know nothing of us, in particular those of the lower classes and castes. The students however have a common world view with us based on similar age and opportunity. This is important to me because among the halls you are treated as a guest, but not a foreigner. Conversation is casual but poignant. The halls offer the opportunity to enjoy the company of others as a person and not as a westerner. The comfort afforded here makes it feel more like home.

One thing I've learned is that students our age have similar interests across the world. We share music, movies, and a love for a good time. With the students I've gotten to play cricket and have been introduced to arrack. Recently all the Davidson came to Thomas hall for a barbecue. Aiyappa and Bala made us some chicken. Taking some wood from the campus and an improvised grill we had some chicken marinated in yoghurt, masala, chili pepper, salt, and lime. Pretty damn good stuff. We had the locally preferred Old Monk and Coke to wash it down.

I have no idea when I'll return to India. It's good to know, however, there will be some people here to welcome me back when I do.

The Queen of Hill Stations

Once a part of the kingdom of Sikkim, and later stategetically taken over by the British, Darjeeling now sits at the north end of West Bengal. Many people would like for it to rejoin Sikkim, the state just to the north of Bengal. Probably won't happen though. Famous for the "champagne of teas" Darjeeling pulls in a tidy income for the state, and it would be difficult to rest that from the West Bengal. Because people in the region only call it a mountain if it is covered in snow the year round Darjeeling technically sits in the hills. Hills is so misleading though. Boulder is in the mountains. So is Asheville. To call these hills is like calling the Appalachians speed bumps. Anywhere else these hills would be sizable mountains. Of course when you round the corner and see the mountains, you realize size is relative. Like when you stand in front of the Himalayas. Then these are hills.

After a long drive up towards the Himalayas, a winding route through the hills, we reached Darjeeling late in the evening. Well not really late, but when the sun sets at 5:30, 8:30 feels late. Since few of us had any warm clothes we went out into the town and bought some cool weather gear. 7000 feet can be cold no matter what time of year. It was easy to spot the Bengali tourists from the Darjeeling natives. Less accustomed to cool weather, even than us, they were bundled up in thick hats and heavy jackets. For 200 Rs (or a little more than four dollars) I bought a comfortable wool sweater. A number of other folks bought hats, gloves and shawls. Although the days are quite comfortable we were meeting at 3:30 the next morning to watch the sun rise and purchased clothes accordingly.

At an hour looking no different to me than the one I went to bed at we all jumped into some cars and sped up Tiger Hill. Since Darjeeling is fairly old, and the streets are winding and narrow, buses are not an option here. You get around in jeeps, but even then there is plenty of three-point turns as you navigate through the town. One turn was so tight it required the driver to back down till the next turn. It was easy to see that the sunrise at Tiger Hill was very popular; while the whole town slept quietly we and about a hundred other jeeps bolted through the town and up the hill in the dark. Upon arrival we jockeyed for position among the throngs of tourists that had also made the trip, elbowing our way through the crowd to get a good view of the sunrise. I won't lie; most people here are a head shorter than me, so I had less trouble finding a good spot than others. When we arrived light had begun to show on the horizon, moving from a deep orange and red to yellow, blue, indigo and then black. As we stood and waited I happened to look over to my left. Just barely becoming visible in the darkness stood the most incredible things I've ever seen. Kanchenjunga. At 28,169 feet it is the largest peak in India and the third largest in the world. Jagged and white it formidably dominates the landscape dwarfing everything around, and easily validating why this was only Tiger Hill. After about my 13th picture of the mountain (which probably consitutes only the first third I took that morning) I realized that at 8000 feet or so, I was 20k feet below the summit. Humbled, I can only dream of reaching that height.

While sunrise and Kanchenjunga is perhaps the highlight of the entire semester so far, here's a few other cool things I'd like to mention: I had my first experience with a coal fire (it's more difficult to light than I anticipated); the monasteries are inspiring sanctuaries of faith; tourist toy trains are pointless, but I can't say I have fun on them; momos are perhaps my new favorite food; monkeys are terrifying; a stray dog with long shaggy hair and floppy ears can be quite cute; tea ain't so bad; tigers really are beautiful; I want to go back to Philmont; and I want to become better trained in mountaineering.

With a combination of soaring peaks, beautiful monasteries, good food, cheap beer, great tea, and some appropriately shaggy but very cute stray dogs, Darjeeling is my favorite place to have visited in India. I really hate to say somethine like that, but so far its true. It's just a gorgeous place. There's no two ways around it.

Better Than a Black Hole

Despite what supposed atrocities occurred against the British here, Calcutta/Kolkata really is a wonderful place. I must first say that it has the best street food I've yet had. Kati rolls are basically fried flat bread with veggies, onions, and egg, meat or both. It was probably the best food I had in Calcutta. And cost 22 Rs. or about 50 cents. By the way 22 Rs. was on the high end. But all street food aside, even though there is little coffee, Calcutta is a surprisingly cosmopolitan city. It has street cars, and a subway, lots of good restaurants, and plenty of museums. It also boasts the largest stray dogs so far in India.

After a tour of the local flower market and a visit to the landmark bridge, supposedly the busiest bridge in the world, we struck a path to the Missionaries of Charity, Mother Teresa's order. The building does little to attract your attention. The sign is quite inconspicuous, and a number of tourists clearly walked past it. When we walked in the first thing to attract my attention was the cleanliness. Each sister wears a white and blue habit that was first shown to Mother Teresa in a dream. Although Calcutta is cleaner than other places we have visited, it still has the regular amounts of grime and dirt that a city of six million develops. But here among the sisters it was clean and quiet, a very strange thing to find. Mother Teresa's room was simple, with a bed, a wardrobe, and a desk. On the wardrobe a flyer read "My Vocation is Love." While in Calcutta the suggestion was made that the city's poor are less plagued by the horrors of poverty because Missionaries of Charity's efforts.

After a morning tour of the city, our group volunteered for the afternoon at three different parts of the organization. I was feeling ill and stayed at the hotel. Some people went to an orphanage, while a few of us went to the home for the dying and destitute. In the latter many people were simply told to help feed or massage the patients. Sometimes we asked ourselves, "What am I doing?" particularly when someone is talking to you in Bengali and all you can do is smile at her. At some point you realize that smile is all that you can give back, but that doesn't mean it was not appreciated or felt. Maybe it was the best part of her day.

Calcutta is considered the cultural capital of India. Defying Bollywood conventions the films here lack the dance sequences and ridiculous situations that are so popular in Mumbai. Tagore, the father of the national anthem and Calcutta native, is arguably the most celebrated writer of India. Calcutta has also benefited from being the seat of the British Raj, with plenty of parks, museums and a great infrastructure. In the botanical garden is India's largest banyan tree.

I'll just say this: Calcutta is a phenomenal place, a must see. And the kati rolls really are amazing.

Market Walks

No matter what city I'm in, my favorite places to visit are the markets. The vibrancy is palpable. People yelling, haggling, jockeying to attract customers. It is the rare place here where I am not the sought for buyer. After all, what will I do with 50 kilos of coconuts? Or a recently decapitated goat?

The markets are generally bisected into smaller zones of produce. In one corner fruits, another vegetables, another dyes and pigments. The other corner has the fresh goat heads. And chicken feet. Sticking together the sellers don't need to advertise--everyone knows where to find the banana sellers. The nice thing too, is it's very easy to compare prices this way. In the larger markets the vendors are dominantly men. Frequently however as the wares move down from wholesales to individual sellers, there is a change from men to women. The smaller street vendors frequently are women, walking along carrying fruit in a large basket on their hips heads hands.

Sweet and fresh the markets are by far the best smelling places around. The flower markets burst with color, and a wonderful floral scent pervades. Around the fruit vendors a toothsome air follows you around. The mango season smelled particularly wonderful. Among the vegetables there is an earthy smell from heaps of potatos and yams. The spice sellers have beautiful mounds of masala, saffron, cardamom, tikka masala, red and yellow curry, which all have their own pungence. All these smells mingle with the beautiful colors into a sensual feast.

Malodorous and fetid the markets are by far the worst smelling places around. The only times I have nearly bent over retching has been walking through the markets. The meat markets specifically. Terrible smells. Terrible. We have passed plenty of open sewers too, but those don't make me gag. No one washes away the scraps from butchering the chickens fish goats. When it rains a brown bloody water runs out from below the markets, bringing feathers and entrails with it. The flies are rampant, over and on top of everything. They cover the goat carcasses. The heaps of fish need no explanation. Neither does the reeking compost of rotting produce.

I love the markets. In effect they are the life blood of the community. Rice, bananas, lentils, fish, incense, potatoes, it all is found here. Stinky and sweet it is beautiful and horrifying.

Street Fare

It's safe to say, though maybe not safe to eat, the best meals I have had here came off the street. Many of the meals at MCC or at some of the restaurants have been very good, however, they have not been dirt cheap. Taking the 250 Rs. I was alotted the other afternoon, I stopped by three street stalls and bought one pakora, a somasa, and a cup of coffee, all totalling 10 Rs. or a bit more than 20 cents. It's astounding to realize how much food you can buy here on such little money, as long as you like it fried.

The only thing better than the good food is the cheap coffee. South India drinks strong coffee with lots of milk and sugar. It took some getting used to but I really like it now. As a general rule the less I pay for coffee the better it is.

The street is a constant source of interest. There is no right-of-way here. You force your way. The trucks, cars, motorcyles, and auto-rickshaws move down the street in a dance that miraculously creates few accidents. The roads are unpredictable and loud. Horns are used with great regularity. Despite the congestion and the carefree cows that aimlessly wander out in traffic, every one, even the cows, reaches their destination without harm.

Everything is available on the street. You can buy practically anything. Fruit, clothing, DVD's (some of movies still in American theaters), it's all there. In the course of a day you turn down dozens of rickshaw drivers, candy-wallahs, chai-wallahs, and knick-knack-that-I've-seen-on-every-corner-in-India-wallahs. If you wanted you would never have to set foot inside a building for your needs. That includes bathrooms.

As you walk along the street there are all sorts of people. Beggars crippled by leprosy asking for alms; rickshaw drivers who scam you; rickshaw drivers who are more than fair; school children who want to shake your hand. Sometimes a person comes up to speak with you, other times just to stare. It's different.

You walk along dodging traffic, ignoring hawkers, and trying to not attract attention. And then you step in cow shit. So it goes.

One Big Vegetarian

The first thing we did upon arriving in Pondicherry was visit the Sri Aurobindo Ashram. Though the guru "left his physical body" decades ago many devotees still live in the community there. As our vans pulled through the brick streets towards the ashram, I was quietly listening to some music. Suddenly someone shook my shoulder and pointed back at a previous intersection. Apparently we had just passed an elephant. Earlier in the year I expressed an elephant ride as the primary reason I wanted to come to India. Ever since I was child pony rides had never been quite enough, and had left me wanting for something more. Something with less hair.

For me this elephant was of the utmost importance. No matter that many people consider Sri Aurobindo a great spiritual leader--one of God's greatest creatures was mere meters away. After paying perfunctory respects at the yogi's resting place, and a stop in the gift shop for my instant Moksha kit, I quickly made my way across the street to the Ganesh temple.

Barring zoo's and circuses this was the first elephant I had ever seen. He was standing next to the entrance of the temple accepting offerings and giving blessings. A half circle of people stood in front of him. If you put out your hand his great proboscis would come and investigate. He would curl the end of his trunk so that you could drop a coin into his nostril. As he moved back and forth among the crowd you could hear the jangle of coins in his trunk. Every so often he would give the coins to the trainer. While accepting alms he would try and nab the food that people walking by had on their person. He very nearly got a dhal laden banana leaf.

The elephant was deceptively large. Of course he dwarfed everything around him, but he did not convey that size all the time. When standing in front of him I was fixed by his eyes. They were yellow with some red tinge. You could not help but stare back at them. The eyes are somewhat low on the head and so you pay most attention to the middle of the elephant, but when you step back you quickly realize just how big this animal is.

I bought some grass for two rupees and fed it to the big guy. With the change I made an offering and received his blessing: a pat on the head with his trunk. Not knowing how much I might have to pay to ride him, I settled for the love-pat and off I went newly blessed by the god of Good Fortune.

Not Forgotten Children

On Monday afternoon one of the professors from MCC took a number of us across town to West Tambaram. We made our way through some of the back streets to the Good Life Center. Founded in 1996 this orphanage had grown from raising a few children to accommodating nearly 100. Some of the children are found abandoned. The police had recently brought an infant that had been left in the train station. Other children are brought by family members after their parents pass away and no one is able to care for them. A few widows are also residents of the center, helping to care for the dozens of children and receive housing and food for them and their children in exchange. Volunteers also assist in the care of the children.

The Center sits on a residential street among private homes. Two buildings cater to the different needs of the children; one is for normal children, the other for the mentally challenged. They are currently raising funding for a new building under construction across the street. The GLC leases its current residence, but it leaks and needs repair. Little space can be afforeded for a play area. Every weekday the children attend a local primary school. School begins about 9:30 and lasts until about 5. Study and play make up the remainder of the day.

When we visited the director briefed us on the situation of the orphanage. In all areas but food the Center needs funding. An interesting aspect of Indian culture is to not let anyone go hungry, so people generously give food and monies to buy it. But the same is not applied to medicine, school supplies, and clothing.

As the director talked to us we could see a few faces through the door. I caught smiles from a few little girls sitting patiently for us to come and visit. When the first of our group began to enter the room you could feel the excitement rising. Each child wanted to shake our hand. I was pulled one way or another as children vied to meet us. At first they were not content to talk to a single person, but had to meet all of us. Each child was friendly and polite. Some of the younger ones were a bit shy but easily grew out of it as the laughter and smiles abounded. I spent most of my time among the boys. Each would shoot out his hand and say "Name?" Once acquainted though, they called each of us "Uncle" or "Aunty" They were exuberant and bubbly. We played games with them, some of ours, some of theirs. I used the "wiggle-waggle" with a few of them. It was sufficiently difficult to keep them entertained.

Though we stayed little more than an hour, you could tell how much the children enjoyed it. I think it meant the world to them for us to come and give them some attention. Before we left they sang and danced for us. I think I took away a lot more than I gave. The smiles and laughs touched me more than I ever could have imagined. I hope to go back soon.

Madras Christian College

Much like Mumbai and Bombay, few people here refer to town as Chennai, but still call it Madras. The college sits about an hour train ride from the true city, tucked away in a town called Tambarum. While the college was founded in the 1830's the campus moved in the 1930's out of the city into what was little more than farmland. Explosive growth however has made Tambarum just another suburb of Chennai, with little demarcation to show where one ends and the other begins. The public transportation of the area allows many of the students here to live off campus. The tuition here is not very much, so one can commute here and live at home for less money than residing on campus.

Today I met with one who took me on a tour around the school farm. As Tambarum was little more than a hamlet when the school relocated here, there is a farm that used to sustain the campus. The farm takes up nearly a third of the property, though in the past few years it's production has sunk considerably as Tambarum has grown up around it allowing for goods to be procured in town. As you walk our to the farm you leave the trees and enter into a tranquil pastoral scene that rests in the heart of an urban area. A dozen milk cows, various fowl, and a sizable goat herd are still maintained. There is also a "piggery" where a few hogs are still kept. As I walked by today most of them were covered in the yellow dhal that was probably served in the cafeteria last evening. They were a happy saffron color.

Mumbai Days

India's New York does sleep. But not much. Throughout the day you hear the incessant toots of horns as cars weave through the city traffic. Sometimes the horn means 'I want to pass' other times 'Watch out!' though with our group it sometimes seems to mean 'Hey, look! White people!' I find my new celebrity troublesome though somewhat endearing.

The past few days have been packed with trying to get the most out of Maharastra, the state which Mumbai is the capital. Most locals seem to call it Bombay. Unbeknownst to me the city was formerly a series of seven islands until a massive land fill by the British made them into one peninsula. The city is not very old, no more than 200 years, but it has attracted the largest population of any city in India. It embodies the Golden Opportunity that so many people are looking for. And apparently some find it.

Tuesday morning found us on a plane to Aurangabad, the seat of government for the Mughal emperor Aurangzeb. After a two hour bus ride spent dodging cows, cars, buffalo, and buses we arrived at the ancient rock-hewn temples of Ajanta. These are Buddhist temples and monastic sites that were literally carved out of volcanic cliffs. Devotion took on a new meaning to me. My work at Odiyan was put in better appreciation. I could only imagine someone appreciating my work a few thousand years from now in California the same way I did for the Ajanta workers. This morning we drove to the west side of Aurangabad to the Ellora caves, a collection of Jain, Buddhist and Hindu temples. Unlike the Ajanta caves these were carved from the mountain and had a much gentler slope allowing for great courtyards. The pinnacle of the Ellora caves is the Kailasa Temple, dedicating the Hindu deity Shiva, the Destroyer. The temple was cut 80 meters back into the rock and 50 meters down. Estimates gauge 200K tons of rock were removed to build it.

Tomorrow we shall reach our home base of Chennai, at Madras Christian College. All seems well with me and my companions. I have yet to get sick and am adjusted to the time change. Hope all is well.

A Warm Arrival

The heat here is all pervading. Though not quite as oppressive as I expected, I nevertheless have been warmer than usual.

We arrived last night in Mumbai after a long flight beginning in Newark. The flight was not very full, allowing us to spread out and get some sleep. Otherwise it was unremarkable trip. Just long. As soon as our group left the airport I could feel all the eyes on us. We have walked around a bit this morning, drawing attention every inch of the way. We certainly stick out.

It's easy to see how people can easily draw judgement on this country. It's got nothing to hide. Poverty confronts you as soon as you land with shantytowns lined up only a few yards away from the runway. Opulence abounds in the architecture. Trash lines the curb, and grime is ubiquitous. Beautiful large trees line the sidewalk and break the concrete with their roots.

A child immediately approached Alex and I this morning as we left the hotel. Before he said a word you could see his thumb rubbing his fingers asking for rupees. For some reason the word urchin flashed in my head. Alex gave him a five-piece that I provided. These interactions will no doubt happen frequently for the next four months, but I don't know if I'll grow any more accustomed to it.