Reflections on Things at Hand: Slovakia

Sadly, one of the biggest victims of the camera theft in Barcelona, besides a couple hundred extra pictures from China and the pictures of Barcelona itself, were all of my pictures from Slovakia. I passed through Slovakia a couple times during the summer odyssey. I flew into Bratislava on the way back from China, before catching a train up to Ruzomberok for a conference, and then catching another train on to Austria, before passing back through Bratislava on the way to catching a flight to Madrid. On the way to Spain I had a day to walk around downtown Bratislava, which I absolutely loved. Folks who complain about the expense of visiting Europe should consider Slovakia - much less expensive than neighboring Czech Republic, Austria or Hungary, but very beautiful - with loads of history. On the initial trip to Slovakia I was scheduled to speak at the Catholic University of Ruzomberok at a conference. I can state without any reservation that I have never, ever been treated so well at any conference. They were extraordinary - from answering all of my questions to picking me up at the train station to feeding me royally to taking all of the main speakers on a whirlwind tour of Slovakia after the conference to taking a detour on a late night, rainy trip to the train station so that I could say that I had visited Poland. Absolutely amazing. It's one of the places that I am considering for my sabbatical, and I can't imagine a more pleasant group of folks to spend a few months with. Ruzomberok itself is a fairly sleepy town, although it had just opened up a western coffee shop as well as a more western nightclub (both owned and run by one of the students at the university). The guy who ran the nightclub was great - he'd talk to you for a few moments and then order you a drink. You might then say that you wanted to drink something else, but he'd just shake his head and "your" drink would arrive - and, he was right, it was fantastic. The Catholic University of Ruzomberok is first-rate. Again, sadly, all the pictures are gone, with the exception of ones that my friend Janka sent me. On the last night (which I had photographed extensively) we were up in the mountains and ate at this little mom and pop restaurant - just an amazing group of folks (including a Dickens scholar who was kind enough to allow me to pester him endlessly about Dickensian subjects). It was one of those moments when you just realized that there would be few times in your life when you would be that completely satisfied. Here are some pictures that my friend Janka (she's the one in the hat) - along with pictures of Kathleen (an ex-pat from the US - the one standing behind me while I look like I'm meditating) and my good friend Katarina (in the black t-shirt). The last year has been pretty brutal, and that's one of those moments that recharged my batteries - I don't think I've had so much fun since the world was young.

Reflections on Things at Hand: CMC Vellore

I think that some people have an almost mystic connection to a place, and apparently for Scudders it is India. Of all the places I've ever visited it is by far my favorite, for any number of reasons. I'm a historian - and who has a more rich and varied history than India? Plus, there is a definite spiritual side to my nature that finds common ground with the deep spirituality of India. I don't try and gloss over all that is wrong with India - and lord know there is enough wrong there. I always think of India has a place that can make you cry twice within a block, the first time in wonderment and the second time in anguish. However, I think it is somehow deeper than that. There is a branch of my family that has been going to India for almost two year hundred years as doctors and missionaries, which is what led my father and I to make the epic train journey from Mumbai to Vellore in early July 2004. We wanted to visit the Christian Medical College and Hospital in Vellore (usually just referred to as CMC Vellore) in Tamil Nadu in southern Indiana. The hospital was founded by Ida S. Scudder, a very distant relative, around a hundred years ago. Apparently the story is that she was visiting her father, a missionary, and was unable to help out three women facing difficult labor (they could get no male medical assistance because of societal norms and at the time Ida had no training). Ida was horrified when all three of the women died, and she went home and graduated from medical school at Cornell. She then returned to India and set up a one bedroom clinic, and then kept expanding into the Christian Medical College was founded. It has since become a very well-respected hospital and medical school. My dad and I knew about the school and contacted them, and they were very excited to have us visit - even going so far as to have a special ceremony for us (even though we explained that we were from the other side of the family did not routinely produce doctors [although my dad is a physician] and missionaries). We took the train down and spent the night at a guest cottage associated with the hospital (and had the surprising comfort meal of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and vanilla ice cream with fresh mango). The next day we had a tour of the hospital, but, unfortunately, we cut the trip short so that we could make a wild trip across India to make it to the Taj Mahal for the 4th of July (another posting in and of itself). My father and I, and my half-sister Annie, would really like to make it back to Vellore for a more extensive tour, including their community work out in the villages. My father was really impressed with the facilities, and it led to an interesting discussion about how medical tourism is becoming a more popular option.

Reflections on Things at Hand: Paan

OK, so how can one talk about India without talking about paan - I mean, come on, there are only thousands and thousands of paan stands in Mumbai alone. Like a lot of things, both good and bad, I was introduced to paan by my wonderful friend Raj, and we never went anywhere that did not include a trip to a paan stand, and there always seemed to be one open no matter how late we were out. Raj was much more like to go for the more traditional paan, which was a betel leaf wrapped around an areca nut, and also a little tobacco thrown in. Raj swore that it was good for you, although he'd start sweating almost as soon as he popped it into his mouth. You'd leave it in your cheeks, much as you would with chewing tobacco. There were several varieties of paan, and also variations between the more amateurish efforts of clumsy paan merchants and the more skilled products from true paanwalas. My friend Al, being more manly than me, will get the more hard core paan - and even that has varieties based on the amount of tobacco involved (I can just see he and Raj now). To my eternal shame, I never advanced beyond "sweet" paan, which was the betel leaf flavored with, again, depending upon the vision of the different panawala, sugar or candied fruit or fennel seeds or coconut. It's not entirely a healthy habit, of course, as anyone who has seen the betel stained teeth and suffered through the endless spitting can attest. Still, it is undeniably Indian (although common in other parts of southeast Asia) and thus it holds a romantic appeal to me.

Reflections on Things at Hand: McDonalds in India

OK, so, as I've pointed out, I never actually go to McDonalds here in the States, but almost always make one trip to a McDonalds in every country when I'm overseas - I don't know whether its just general perversity or a desire to get a reminder of home. And, as I've stated before, a Big Mac meal always costs the same, whether it is in forints or shillings or dirhams or yuan. The biggest difference being that the $4.50 is much dearer in the other country, and is actually almost a status symbol as compared to a cheap lunch out. I'd heard that the beef in McDonalds sandwiches is a lot worse overseas, but I've never really noticed that - a Big Mac is a Big Mac is a Big Mac, which may or may not be a compliment, I suppose. Obviously, its a little different in India because you can't have beef in your Big Mac (just like you can't have pork in your Cincinnati style chili at the Chili House in Amman). Here's a nice sign from a McDonalds in India, which expresses the creativity of a beef-less burger.

Reflections on Things at Hand: Lunch in John's Office

One of the things I most looked forward to every day in India was lunch, and not simply because I love to eat. It was a meal that routinely and quietly reaffirmed that I was a member of the family. Sometimes we'd go out for lunch - and quite often Raj and I would be driving downtown to meet with businesses to set up internship opportunities for students or visiting local high schools to promote our Champlain College campus - but usually we'd just have lunch in John's office. I'd first walk across the street to the little shop (which was a shop only in the most technical use of the term - it was about five feet by five feet - and the owner sat on a stool behind the counter) to grab a Sprite - he was always very happy to see me. Back in John's office we'd spread out newspapers on his desk, and the local canteen on campus would send along food. The guy who ran the canteen was also the local neighborhood snake wrangler (so if someone found a cobra under their house they'd call him and he'd remove it) - he invited me to go with him to the annual snake festival at Pune (east of Mumbai), but, sadly, I had to fly out right before the event so I missed it. Don't make too much of the snake wrangler connection - the food was almost universally vegetarian, and as a Hindu he would avoid doing any harm to the snake. The lunch would usually consist of a few dishes which we ate with either rice or bread. The one constant was dhal (also spelled dahl and daal and dal), which is lentil-based and a staple of the Indian diet. My Indian friends would roll their eyes when the dhal showed up again, which meant that I got to eat almost all of it every day. I ate so many fantastic meals in India, but I may remember those everyday lunches in John's office most fondly.

Reflections on Things at Hand: My Dad's Birthday

As I discussed earlier, my father went with me for the first week and a half of the summer (2004) I spent teaching in India. He loved his time there, and has talked constantly of trying to get back - his daughter Annie really wants to recreate the train ride that we took across India. My Indian friends, naturally, treated him like royalty and could not have been kinder. While we were there he celebrated his birthday, and, of course, the Indians threw a party for him. The cake, no doubt arranged by dear friend Raj (a scoundrel with a heart of gold - more on Raj later), was supposed to have been a gift from Bollywood, the Indian film industry. A constant joke was that my dad would get hired off the street by some Bollywood agent to play a bad guy in a film (it does actually happen to visiting Americans occasionally). Hopefully we'll make it back there again. I've only been back once since that summer, and, obviously, I'm missing India.

Reflections on Things at Hand: Indian Goodbyes

As anyone who knows me knows all too well, I will cry at the drop of a hat - it's a classic Scudder trait, although, thankfully, I'm not as bad as my brother (who probably breaks down when there are changes in postage rates because he feels bad for the old stamps which are now ignored). It's nothing I'm ashamed of, and, truthfully, we should really all show our emotions more readily than we do. That said, I try to avoid putting myself in the position of blubbering in front of a large crowd. It's one of the reasons why I squashed all attempts to have a going away party when I left Georgia Perimeter College in Atlanta to move north - I let my friends know that if I even thought they might be putting something together I wouldn't show up (so I had this rule that I would go out for one on one lunches only). Someday when I leave Champlain I plan on passing through as a ghost - one day there will simply be no one in my office. This did not deter my Indian friends - John Neelankavil, Raj Nambiar, Rashmi, and my lovely students - from persevering despite my best efforts. I made it clear that there would be no party and I would be making no speeches. And so after my last class of the summer all my students walked out of the classroom, and then the entire campus walked in thirty seconds later. There was cake and pizza and student speeches and dancing and gifts - and the required farewell speech from me, although I didn't get much more out than "namaste" before I started crying too hard to continue. When John and Raj drove me to the airport it was so obvious that they were intent on carrying on this fast-paced, almost machine gun fast, discussion just to keep me distracted, so that I wouldn't break down again - and I didn't, until they drove away.