It's been just over a couple of weeks in my latest posting at Sacramento, CA. The moving in and adjustment to the new work routine have happened so fast that I've scarcely had the time to drink it all in, but I have formed a couple of initial impressions to put down all the same.
First up, the much vaunted California weather appears to be one big myth. This place is pretty enough, if not strikingly so, but with all the rain, cold and gloom I've hardly had a chance to step outside and look around when done for the day. Anyone stuck on the east coast or the midwest would probably argue that this place is heaven by comparison, but having been told that things are more costly in CA because you're "paying for the weather" it feels a bit of a let down. I have much to take in so I hope things will improve.
As for the area I live in, it's culturally dead. The apartment is fine, but the surroundings give me the distinct feeling of how things would be if I lived in Electronics city, or Sarjapur (Bangalore readers will relate to this) - nothing but office buildings and lawns, big empty streets with intermittent zooming traffic, and a few convenience stores here and there. No bookshops, no music stores, no cafes which stay open late, and no movie theaters (where will I catch the opening of Watchmen in a week's time?). It's just as well I have to spend twelve hours a day in the office, I'd have a hard time figuring out what to do here otherwise. I had a lot I took for granted back at the University, and though things are too rushed for me to pine for the comforts of my previous location, the thought of being stuck in this halli for the next few months makes me want to make a trip to Austin sooner than I'd planned. Or at any rate, get my license done, rent a car and make a trip somewhere.
I recall the frantic packing I went through in Austin, neurotically assembling my collection of books and audio cassettes together (even making a list of the ones I left with my friends back there), trying to stuff the last two years of my life in a couple of suitcases. Maybe I should be concerned about my continued obsession with my cassette collection and borrowed books, things I should have outgrown by now. But much as I like to think that almost everything is dispensable, it turns out that these kinds of tangibles - stuff you've put a lot of effort into acquiring - eventually breed a sort of possessiveness that's terminal. Too many happy memories, I guess.
The apartment's nice and big. I'm rooming with four others, and while we've got along so far I'm reserving my judgment. New roommates always provide an interesting study in observation, as well as apprehension. It probably stems from what Tim May describes very well in his book, Mayhem:
I think that the practice of putting two fully developed males, friends or not, in a room together for several months is a fraction unnatural. Your most intimate conversations with loved ones, your private habits, private noises, private scratches are all shared with someone who is sleeping six inches away.
He might have added the part about disagreements arising from the way plates are dumped in the sink, the bits of hair spread across the shower, and the way the wastebin overflows onto the nearby carpet. Rooming with someone of unknown habits can either force you to re-evaluate your sense of aesthetics, or make you realise you're not the cleanliness freak you imagined yourself to be. The next few weeks will be pretty revealing.
One of my roomies made a weekend trip to San Jose to attend a family event. He returned with several dabbas of ultra-fiery food, leftovers from the function. Among the takeaways was some chilli chicken which proved to be the ultimate tearjerker, and has since shaken my world in general and my digestive system in particular. It reminded me, in the most masochistic way, of the last time I had eaten something this spicy; back in July 2005, I accompanied Shom and another friend to RRR, the Andhra restaurant in Bangalore. We were daft enough to go along with the waiter's recommendation, a chicken dish which was spicy on the outside - no surprise there - but proved to be dynamite on the inside; it was liberally stuffed with chilli seeds. The subsequent assault on my taste-buds was like nothing I had ever felt before, or three years after; who would've thought I'd be compelled to revisit that memory in my current situation? Not quite deja vu, but strange all the same. And thus I shall conclude this entry with a piece of advice to all epicureans back home: never trust a waiter at an Andhra restaurant.
PS: Although not originally intended, the title of this post could be thought of as a tribute to a certain book by Pankaj Mishra. Highly recommended for an insight into small town India.
Current Music: Al Pitrelli - Birdland
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