How not to get a story.

Last Thursday I went out to immerse myself in a new community -- the Garment District. I've been tip-toeing around the real stories for a few weeks now, figuring out how to write without being intrusive. This time I had a different motive.

As I walked along the District's streets I poked my head into at least 10 shops, chatting with shop owners selling fabrics and samples. I was kind and friendly. I joked and laughed, tried to find common ground. Instead, my conspicuous Canon and I were greeted with irritation, paranoia and hostility.

I finally found a nice Bangladeshi man to speak with. He sold spandex, liked Indians, told me about immigration. I spent hours in the store taking photos, making friends, being asked about my Facebook name. Two and a half hours later, I was asked to leave. Turns out undocumented workers are not okay with their photos taken.

The rest of the day followed suit. I climbed up many stairs to get a door shut in my face by a psychic. A Jamaican man picking trash literally ran away from me and said he didn't like "publicity". Another guy collecting recycling laughed in my face, a Yom Kippur event with no good lighting. The shoe cobbler didn't like to talk and the donut guy was too busy. Even my attempt to turn a night at a bar into a photo story revealed only a cluster of blurred, shaky snapshots.

I trudged into a bookstore the next day. I always feel at home in a bookstore, especially the ones like this one with stacks of books in every nook. I began to shoot photos happily, following the light and the frequent visitors. Half an hour later I asked to do a quick interview with the owner. The snappiness in his voice made my heart sink. I got about three questions in and ran away.

For the past two weeks I've been likening myself to an awkward guy in a bar. The rejection when you're a journalist, especially an unaffiliated one, is immense and consistent. We're told not to take it personally, be thick skinned. But if you know me, that's impossible -- my skin's about as thick as chiffon.

Maybe I lack chops, or maybe it's a cold, busy, overwritten world. I prefer my position in the corner, watching the universe spin and letting my fingers follow. Good connections, like good boyfriends, I suppose, can't always be found on a deadline. But maybe I need to be more open to the blind dates of journalism and show up every time with renewed hope and stories to be swapped.

Kanya

Being a woman in India comes with a lot of warnings -- don't even tap a guy on the shoulder, wear your dupatta in a modest and precise way, don't make eye contact.

Most of this advice comes from scary stories, and some from experience. But as my friend Kam mentioned in a piece she wrote, a lot of it comes from Fear.

Fear is the reason that almost every conversation I have with my aunts has nothing to do with my work, and everything to do with my safety. Fear is the driving force behind Indian newspapers -- effectively making this country sound overrun with lawless gangsters.

I was thinking of this the other day on a long bus ride from the hills. As soon as I climbed on, the conductor pointed me to the front two seats which were reserved for women. Not only was I protected from wandering eyes, I had a big screen view of the foothills of the Himalayas.

I know there are huge women's rights violations happening all the time. In fact many of them -- prostitution, child marriages and lack of education -- exist openly in my community. But my own experiences in India have been empowering and comforting, giving me hope that there is room for tremendous growth.

I continue to get in heated discussions, but my delivery has changed. I live and travel independently, but usually surrounded by women. I support girls who want to be educated and strong, but no longer discount their desire for a family life.

Here, aunties (yes, they are a genre) have been my guardian angels. Women who sit outside of my community center have pointed out wardrobe malfunctions and sensed my need for chai and chatting. Others have taught me to add tadka to my daal, and dress for freezing weather. One of my host mothers even got rid of a guy who was calling me too much.

Spending more time in the house translates to deep relationships with families, including fathers and sons. The societal idea that I am innately peaceful and nurturing has served me well with my students who have no problem wrapping their arms around my waist in the middle of an English class.

In another country, in another mental state, I might have been frustrated at the rules and stereotypes of being a girl. But at this moment I am almost relieved to be a woman. Not because I've stopped pushing the limits, but because I feel that India, or at least Chandigarh, has become the mother that knows just when her daughter is about to touch the stove, and pulls her hand away.

Dheere

In the past few months I mistook exhaustion for satisfaction. A night where my feet were tired and my head was spinning with things to do was the mark of a good day.

But then the last two weeks happened. Weeks where my mind and body refused to come to any kind of agreement about how to take my project forward. My mind wanted to add three new classes to the kids' schedule, to hold book sales, to create lesson plans, to recruit teachers. And my body, well my body wanted to sleep and eat chocolate. (Okay, the chocolate might have been my mind, too).

I wasn't ready for this black hole of energy, especially not after being inspired during our first Indicorps workshop. But it came, and I'm trying to figure how I can be so de-motivated, so frustrated, and still be hell bent on fulfilling my community needs at the same time.

A past staff member at our workshop said something that resonates with me. He said whenever he was angry at Indicorps, or didn't see value in what he was doing, he reminded himself that he had a ticket home.

A ticket home. I have a freaking ticket back to the United States where my family will welcome me back with open arms and I can sit on a couch and eat cereal and watch "13 Going on 30", and all the other little bits of America that hit me once in a while.

But the kids in my community don't have that ticket, do they? I recently went with a couple of them in an auto to our office, and one of the girls had never been past "Sector 8". Sector 8 was less than 5 kilometers from her home.

Forget the distance, some of my teenage kids can't count more than five "good" jobs. Success for them has somehow been limited to five routes.

In a Comparative Politics class I took at UF, we learned that poverty could be defined not by lack of money or water or a home, but by lack of choice. I'm not sure that the "rich" always have a choice either -- there sure are a lot of identical pathways created, anyhow. But of this one choice I am sure: I don't have to be here.

And for some weird reason, in this limbo of energy, that is the very thing that keeps me going.

Tyag

At the risk of sounding unappreciative and self-righteous, I feel downright uncomfortable when family and friends (and sometimes strangers) praise me for the sacrifices I'm making this year.

I'm not sure where this idea came from. How does moving across the world to explore something you love count as a sacrifice? Honestly, I'm lucky, and not just in a grateful-because-I-work-with-the-poor kind of way.

I realize that the path I chose isn't easy. It's sometimes physically uncomfortable (example: 30 hour train rides with unconfirmed seats).And it's almost always a mental roller coaster. But what did I give up?

Throughout the day I get to learn. I learn how to form relationships with people from all stratas of society. I learn how to cook foods that remind my of my mom. I learn the boundaries of my patience, and the depth of my love. I learn what to do when 100 kids are all crowding around you with their hands stretched out for want of something to do, or have.

Then, as I learn, I am constantly receiving love. I get loving messages from friends who I haven't spoken to in years. My students (teachers?) can tell when I'm sad or frustrated, and somehow know how to make me smile. I constantly get invitations to dinners and weddings. And my family calls me just when I am starting to miss them so much it hurts.

If it's about the material sacrifice, I can't digest that either. In the past few years I've struggled to have less of an impact on the environment. I've tried to become a producer rather than a consumer.I almost cried over plastic bags once, and I tried to convince myself I was strong enough to bike everywhere in my town.

Then suddenly, I don't even have to think about sustainability. I take a bath with one bucket (2 if I wash my hair). I get my fruits and vegetables from the farmer's market, which is cheaper than the store. I try to use the local bus, and if it doesn't come, I share an auto with three or four strangers.

I have less clothes than I ever have had -- I started with four pairs, but was given three more during Diwali. If anything, this has proved a blessing. I spend about 2 minutes getting dressed, and twenty four hours being comfortable. And somehow, despite the fact that my kurtas are loose and faded and my hair is wild, I've never had more attention or compliments on my appearance.

So I live in a slum part-time. Still, not a sacrifice. In fact, it might be a journalist's dream situation to be part of a community where you are both an insider and outsider. I have friends that I honestly connect with. I have host parents who care more about my comfort than I do. And after a few days of adjustment, I have a new place to call home.

I'm not here to experiment with poverty, or see how far I can go until I get sick. I'm here with a mission of inspiring some amazing children, and the rest of the lifestyle just seems to make my mission more clear and strong.

Everyday, it seems, someone is either overestimating me or underestimating me. Some people tell me that what I'm doing is amazing, when I know how much more I can do.

Then, others tell me that my efforts are misguided, ridiculous and extreme. They say I can do service without living simply, or challenging my needs. I can handle that criticism, too.

The truth is, in my everyday life here, I don't feel like I've lost anything. When I really want something, I have it and enjoy. But the wanting is much less, and the enjoying is much more. If this is sacrifice, I'll take it.

Letting My Hair Down

A more enduring battle than Me vs. Job Market has been Me vs. My Hair.

Since I was four (I blame Florida water), I've had this mass of rebellious corkscrews on my head. And not the soft, bouncy Shirly Temple type, or the funky Lauryn Hill coiffe, but a frizzy mop that defies the blow dryer, good weather and any Japanese straightening system that wages war against genetics.

When I was eight, I attempted to de-volumize and had it all chopped off to a couple of inches. The end result was a full on square-shaped 'fro that earned me nicknames like Don King, and plenty of bawling sessions in the lower bunk bed. Then when I was 12 I discovered a straightener and have since spent hours with 430 degrees applied to my scalp for parties, interviews, or any time I needed to feel, yes I am saying it, empowered.

At age 13, an age when you will do anything that will make you look like everyone else, I succumbed to a $500 burning ointment that changed the chemistry of my locks, and continued to shell out atrocious amounts for just a few months of normalcy over the next eight years.

But things change. I went through a couple more battles with Self, and then to college, where I watched this one guy in the Plaza of the Americas hang out in the grass with incredibly tangled and mangled blonde hair, sticking up and coagulating into dreadlocks and probably washed less than my car.

And I met Lynsey, whose own hair liberation inspired me to question why I was constantly suppressing, straightening, stressing out what was rightfully my version of beauty. She called it "going natural", and while I touted going natural in all other aspects, I never considered how vital it could be for my hair.

Fast forward to last weekend when I sat in the chair at the hairdressers. Every hairdresser except for one (who quit) tells me to straighten and relax my hair. Last Saturday was no different and I started my usual apologetic shpiel for the difficult situation I had burdened my stylist with.

On her third insistence that I pay her hundreds to relax my hair, I got straight up angry. With a smile still on my face I said, "I like my hair. I like it curly and I don't want to straighten it." So she made a face, she shrugged, she kept cutting. At the end, she said, "I'm glad you like your hair."

Sometimes I read articles about how straight hair is taken more seriously and how to buy the perfect straightening iron. And it's true that the click-clack of heels and a shiny blow-out helps me face an employer or potential date with more confidence. But on just any day, like a misty March Sunday, I've got my hair down and free and in absolute defiance of any glossy ad, and I'm reveling. Isn't that what it means to grow up?

Green means Go

As the sun set too early on my organic garden plot yesterday, I noticed the first fruits of my labor -- green beans. Almost camouflaged, a little scrawny, but there they were in all their glorious beanness. I plucked one off, split it in thirds and shared with my neighbors. Crisp, tasty and only dirty from actual dirt.

This week I interviewed an entrepreneur growing gourmet mushrooms out of coffee waste, and listened to Blake Mycoskie speak about his revolutionary (and kind of 'duh') idea of founding TOMS shoes. I spoke to some Gainesville goldens about carving vases and goblets from discarded wood and traipsed through the farmer's market sampling kim chi and banana bread. Last night, during my job search, I read an article about non-profit newspapers faring best of all in this economy.

When I open my eyes wide enough, life is always speaking to me in patterns, ideas and messages. Despite my recurring itch to get out of the country every couple months, the power of local food, journalism and art is a seductive concept. And while it seems like a modern trend to embrace the "Think Globally, Act Locally" idea, Gandhiji knew the only route to real wealth was from sustainable communities -- not state or national governments.

I've got more ideas than I know what to do with. So for now, I'll focus on the green beans.

A nice cold Bir

Our last hours in the mountain village of Bir and I'm surrounded by monks at the internet cafe. I'm trying not to think about all of these "lasts" -- the last time I get to hug this family at Inspire that we've created, the last time I eat a Momo (Tibetan dumpling), the last time I crouch for hours on a bus that swerves treacherously between cliffs and falling rocks. But that time has come, the Walrus said.

I've been so spoiled the last ten days staying at a former Buddhist monastery and eating amazing food and Cadburys. It's hard to remember that for a few weeks I was sweating so much that I never had to pee, and that the ground had become as good as a mattress. Yesterday evening I sat at 9000 feet, clouds moving through me, thinking of every home we had been welcomed into and every meal we had cooked or served. Maybe it was the altitude, but there was a lightness on that grassy patch that I could only call divine.

There are so many things about India that I will never understand -- disparity, hunger, politics, and the way women survive through alcoholic husbands and intense labor. But so many more things that I love enough to stay and return -- the raw reality, the fields of crops, the little girls who follow you and scream "Didi" and hold your hands.

So here it is, the last day. At times it felt so far away, mostly when I sick or covered by welts from mosquitos. But mostly it was a day that I tried to avoid and push away until it came time to buy my ticket to Hyderabad. I'm so grateful that I get to go from this family to more family and a wedding and love. But until then, I am Inspired.

How Bazaar

On the terrace of the building 13 in Khan Market, the smog lifted and I was happy.

Our last night in Delhi was a jam session. Students from Manzil, an education based NGO, played Hindi songs with acoustic guitars, tambourines and a rhythmic dhol drum. My entire body responded to the frequency of the beautiful music and I sang and tapped my feet and danced with a presence that had left me since our night walk with Jamghat (what I described in my last post).

Over the past few weeks our own group of 21 (we picked up some people) had become a traveling orchestra in its own right. We visited a flute maker and now about 10 people practice the raspy bamboo flutes on our train rides and during meetings. There are also guitars, ukeleles and goosebump-worthy singing voices within the circle.

Last night wasn't about the Indians or Americans or the technique or our education -- it was about the absolute joy that came from a bunch of young people wanting to get lifted. And I got there fast.

Now I embark on the last leg of this journey. I have learned more in the past four weeks than I have in years of college and I'm hoping this week in the mountains will help me start to absorb and digest everything I've seen and done.

I know now that so much of what I thought was backwards and regressive about India is actually its saving grace. I feel like the girl who got off of the airplane on June 22 was some breed of hippie-colonist who thought if only those tribal kids would learn English and the government would transform slums into proper living areas, everything would be just fine.

But now I know that a farmer's adamant refusal to leave his land helps India's soil and fabric more than teaching calculus will. I know that those squatting toilets in the ground are the reason that people still have enough water to drink.

Last week I was wrist deep in cow dung and I have never felt more American. But it's just grass, and we are all just people.

That's just the way it is...

Things will never be the same.

Until this year I've been a baby-- skipping 1st grade, using fake IDs, getting rides when I everyone else had a license, graduating high school at 17.

Now I'm graduating one semester later than my peers, finally becoming the appropriate age. And my "super senior" time has proven to be a blessing. I knew I skipped long division for something.

I feel blessed to have felt the ticking clock. Being a senior made me do what panic does best -- appreciate and savor every moment in Gainesville. Especially since my bestest friends have been partying, tasting, experiencing to the max, I've been learning to love our college town with its bike lanes, flowing bars and quirky music scene. I spent the last three years thinking that sure this place is alright, but I can't wait to get to FlorenceHyderabadCorcovadoSanMarco. Not anymore.

Today, I woke up in my bed in my parents house and all I wanted to do was drive back and wake up late with my roommates, bike to Southwest for a workout and stay up until 4 a.m. listening to mismatched locals playing reggae with my friends. I wanted to eat another vegan shabbos dinner at Faryn's house, and drink tea at Maude's with Pallavi and Jason.

I'm feeling strangely emotional and nostalgic about the four years I've spent growing up without rules. From the freshman dorms with their hospitally smell to the beautiful house where I learned to feel my sunniest -- I'm so grateful for endings and beginnings.