Hopkins, it's over ... and it's not me, it's you

Dear John(s Hopkins),

I'm just writing this to tell you it's over. We're through. I've moved on, found a new love - a love called India.

Before I left for the semester abroad, I thought we could make this long-distance thing work. I thought I could hold on to all the good times we shared. But how can I go back to long nights of studying when I've slept in the desert, staring up at countless stars while the camel I rode on earlier snores gently nearby? How can being drunk and sweaty in the basement of SAE compare with dancing bhangra barefoot in the cool grass? How could even the cutest campus rabbit or squirrel compare to parrots, monkeys and elephants?

And here I've seen the Taj Mahal, the most beautiful monument in the entire world, so spectacular it doesn't look real even when you're standing at its base or touching the cool marble. Its pristine white dome and majestic pillars gleam in the sunshine, a testament of undying love from a Mughal emperor to his dead wife. What have you ever given me, Hopkins? Gilman Hall? Oh, wait, that's closed now. The library? Some testament of love that is.

Sure, India's got its flaws. I don't deny that. My Internet is spotty at best. I miss bagels and sushi. There are no showers - I have to take bucket baths. And let's not get started on the lack of toilet paper...

(To be serious for a moment, India does have major problems extending beyond my minor complaints. Poverty is in your face in a way it really isn't in America - homeless on every corner, colonies of people pitching tents and making homes on mounds of garbage. A man came up to my taxi one time, cradling a small baby, her arm mangled. Her skin looked like it had been burnt. It broke my heart to refuse his request for two rupees, because what's that money to me? A couple of cents? But as anyone who's seen Slumdog Millionaire knows, there is the idea that these beggars are merely a front for organized crime, and these underworld dons are often causing horrible injuries to beggars as a way to garner more sympathy and money. Whether this is true or just an excuse made by those unwilling to give money so they can feel better about themselves, is up for debate, but in the meantime I soothe my conscious by giving out bananas or crackers instead.)

But India has given me so much. I'm learning Hindi, figuring out a culture completely different from my own and meeting some of the most interesting people. Very few people speak English well, but they always smile at my pitiful attempts at Hindi. There are some drawbacks - I feel like I am stared at constantly, as if the men expect me to break into some slutty gyrations like all the white girls in Bollywood music videos do. Our group went to visit Humayan's Tomb, and what was supposed to be a serene visit to enjoy lovely architecture turned into a taste of what it must be like to be Angelina Jolie. A group of 700 schoolboys - no exaggeration - was touring the site at the same time, and we were swarmed. Everyone wanted a picture taken, or to shake our hands or to practice their English with us.

But if I need a little dose of America, I have two places to turn to. The first is my host sister, Manu. Before I met Manu, I had never met anyone who matched the stereotypical American teenage girl shown on television and in movies. She's obsessed with boys, filled with stories of school drama, loves bad American pop music (she constantly begs me to play Linkin Park and Jonas Brothers ... not that I have those or anything...) and doesn't like schoolwork. The second is American restaurants. They have them just about everywhere, but they all have an Indian twist to them - McDonald's has no hamburgers, but instead they serve something called a McAloo Tikki ("aloo" means potato in Hindi, but not even my host family could explain to me what it tastes like - maybe someday I'll work up the courage).

My best taste of home, however, was the night of Obama's inauguration - when he got sworn in at noon, it was 10 p.m. at TGIFriday's. It was the only place we could think of to watch the Inauguration. The place was decked out with what Indians must think Americans like. The best touch was the waiters in cowboy hats covered with red, white and blue balloons. For some reason, however, we were the only Americans there. At first, I felt as awkward as Sarah Palin during a Katie Couric interview, but soon everyone started applauding. I'm not sure if they were celebrating Obama or our rowdy behavior, but either way it was change I can believe in.

So Hopkins, I hate to do this in a letter, but it looks like things might not work out. I've had a taste of India and I'm not sure if I'm willing to come back for the same old thing.

Just remember, it's not me, it's you.

Sincerely,

Marie Cushing