BOLLYWOOD!

Friday I organized Singapore’s first Biopharmaceutical Symposium at the Biopolis Matrix Auditorium. I had hoped to get 100-200 students to attend. I reserved a theater that held 480, out of convenience and location. 674 students registered and at least 600 showed up. I hoped it would be similar to the US where students sign up to get out of classes and take an early weekend. Kids were sitting in the aisles, but the event was a success set to become a yearly conference.

Bollywood
The next day I took off for Mumbai. Bombay. Bollywood! I flew in around 10pm to the Grand Hyatt Mumbai. It is a fortressed complex with the slums along the perimeter of the premises, but once inside, it is a modern-day palace. It is Saturday night and I ask the concierge if there are any nightclubs nearby. Well, coincidence has it that the Hyatt houses the China Room – Mumbai’s premiere club where the Bollywood stars hang. I waited until midnight to check it out and was quickly escorted to the front of the line – one of the benefits of being blonde in India! However, once inside the posh spread of a glowing bar surrounded by expensive rooms to rent by the hour, well stocked with liquor, I realize that I am the only Caucasian in the bar and feel again like a piece of meat. I made friends with two Indian Airline Stewardesses who could pass for Bollywood’s finest, but I couldn’t recognize one of the stars if they were looking me in the eyes. Now I know some of you are asking yourselves ‘why the hell did she go back to India?’ after my last visit under the curse of Shiva and the six weeks, six medications, and ten pounds I lost in a most unhealthy way. I LOVE INDIA! I am also speaking at the International Bioprocess Conference and seeing the more Westernized side of the country, but not before I jet down to the beaches of Goa.

Going to Goa
The 45-minute drive from the airport to Baga Beach, I was living on a prayer. The taxi driver had no regard for cars coming in the opposite direction as he enjoyed playing chicken with trucks and cattle. However, what I have learned is that the makeshift shrine on his dashboard will save us from any accidents. I just need to hold on and enjoy the ride. What is strange in Goa though is the fact that the shrine is actually Jesus – no Shiva or monkey gods looking me in the eyes – it is actually the Son of God. Christian Indians? Who’d a thunk? And by the number of churches and crosses on the side of the road, I realize this is not the India I know.

The Portuguese settled Goa and the people are Jesus freaks! Sunday on the beach hosted the Indian techies who have driven in from the internal Silicon Valleys to enjoy the waves in their business attire, un-stealthfully snapping photos of me on their phone cameras. Some are actually bold enough to ask to have their photo taken with me…as I wonder how many are referring to me now as their ‘girlfriend.’ Sunset brought a break in the crowds of young men, allowing me the chance to do yoga under the stars in peace. The beaches are beautiful, strolling for miles with a gentle slope down to the Arabian Sea. Fishing villages and restaurants line the shore.

The next day, I have my own beach hut where the Indian boys protect me from the passers by, cursing them in Hindi if they even glance my way. This is their beach and I am their Betty! I did homework, watching the sunset at a beachside café, listening to the Thriller album. read a Sedaris book and started my term papers. I don’t mind the smell of India anymore. Now that I expect it, I just enjoy the stench as part of my adventures. The slums outside of my boutique hotel are actually beautiful in a way to me, as well as the beautiful little girls in their colorful saris waving at me as I pass.
Fashion Week
Bombay’s Lamke Fashion Week – where the Bollywood stars walk the runways in the newest Indian mode. The morning I flew from Goa back to Mumbai, I was mistaken for an Eastern European model at the airline luggage belt. A nicely dressed gentleman who had been riding in first class inquired on my presence at Fashion Week. Unfortunately, I am here to speak for a Bioprocess conference. As we waited for the bags, he gave me the lowdown on the Indian fashion industry and all the parties that would revolve around it. “Please come tonight as my guest when you are done with your meetings.” as he passed me his business card. Executive VP of marketing for India’s largest media company.

After sitting through a day of technology transfer, IP legislation and biological guru talks, it was time to see the real Mumbai. I Google his company to make sure he was legit and emailed the man. Within seconds, I had directions to the premiere event in town along with tickets to two fashion shows. As I pondered my suitcase, I realized, oh shit, what does one wear to Bombay Fashion Week? All I have is business attire and beach clothes. What would Carry Bradshaw wear? I picked up a black bathing suit cover up I bought for 150 rupees (~$4). It is sheer, black and sequenced up – together with a black mini-skirt; I was ready for the catwalk. I walked down to the foyer to grab a cab and was informed that I cannot get through Mumbai due to the riots in progress.

RIOTS? Raj, a politician, was imprisoned and now the riots have started to demand his release. I knew there were problems at the airport this morning and cabs were hard to come by, but I cannot miss my only opportunity to see the Bollywood stars on the runway. I went to street level to try negotiating with taxis, rickshaws and limousine drivers and no one would dare enter the riot areas, until I met Bala, my bodyguard. Bala knew all the back roads and was not afraid of the media’s scare on Mumbai and as he promised me, it was a situation blown out of proportion and the ride to Fashion Week was without traffic, congestion or Indians setting cars on fire. Tuhin met me at the door of the auditorium , which is the Indian equivalent to Christmas next week.

As we wander from designer showcases and trunk shows, stopping in the private lounges sponsored by Chivas and Skoda for drinks along the way, I realize he is purposely making me walk a good 3-4 steps behind him and I feel like a paid escort. The runway shows were amazing with the fabrics and saris clad over the most beautiful women in the world and concluding each show with a Bollywood start to showoff the premiere creation. I catch him staring at me often and rubbing my leg with his hand. He is relatively a nice man, successful and interesting, but way too paternalistic for me to ever to consider as a mate.

As the last show closed, we headed to a party at the Taj with my bodyguard trailing behind us. The parties would go on until dawn and I had to present at 9am. While Tuhin was trying to get me to go home with him, I had a good excuse to exit stage left.

My presentation was well received by the International community and Germans, Swedes, Indians, and Englishmen all approached me after the talk to find out more about our modular project in Singapore. It is a revolutionary process design in SE Asia and it was rewarding to know how influential the project I spent the last 18 months on was to the rest of the world.

An overnight flight from Mumbai back to Singapore to Raphael’s to find out the Singapore position did not come through for him and he will be returning to Germany at the end of November. This is where our story ends. He is going back to the Black Forest and me to California. I have to say I have learned a lot from this relationship and wish it had worked logistically. The next morning, I boarded a plane to SF via Korea. The next morning to Atlanta via Denver to visit Samantha. The next to Boca Raton via Charolette for an International Society of Pharmaceutical Engineers Convention. Fifteen Flights in one week.

Free Bird
The night at the Bombay fashion shows, I was approached by a man who unsolicitedly read my palm. It is scary he revealed almost the same information to me that the little Chinese lady did a few months ago, however, he extrapolated more than the fire inside, the stubborness, the two loves and hard worker in me – he says that I am a ‘Free Bird’ and I do not want to be tied down by anything….also that I am looking for something specific and I will not stop until I find it.

Phuck It

Phuket – pronounced ‘poo-kay’
Saw a man drown in the sea off the coast Nai Harn beach this weekend. It was very disturbing with no sense of urgency. A drunken Thai kid got caught in the rip tide and while it took four guys to find his body that was submerged for a good 20-30 minutes, when they got him to shore there was no ambulance, no resuscitation efforts, nobody with this boy who cared that he died. Instead, each holding one of his limp limbs, they threw him in the back of a tsunami rescue SUV.

So the first day in Phuket, we relaxed at the pool, had lunch on the beach watching the kite surfers, played a little tennis and had an $8 Thai massage, which felt more like a power yoga class. The woman contorted my body into formations I never though possible. That evening we rented a scooter and drove an hour at dusk to Patong Beach to walk the streets of sex shows, man ladies, old, perverted men and drunk Aussies.

The second day we took the scooter all over the island, visiting beaches and marinas along the way and window-shopped the knock-off designer stalls.

The third day we thought we would bike the National Park preserve, but we only got about 2 km before the monsoon downpour. We took cover in an abandoned restaurant for an hour with a Thai family. When the heavy rain subsided, we rode through the wet streets back to the Indigo Pearl for a day of sports. First I got another pretzel massage, then Raphael and I played some ping pong, followed by Mui Thai boxing, billiards while watching the Berlin marathon, the gym and then an evening of watching the Formula 1 race in Singapore.

Raphael is very competitive and a black belt in karate. He was not impressed with my boxing skills and was rather annoyed that I would not do exactly as he, the master, says. He showed no mercy in beating me up and then he punched me in the nose and knocked the wind out of me, telling me I did not move fast enough. I have finally met my match. He is stronger, faster, smarter, more anal (yes, even more anal than Carl and I put together!) and I am finding it difficult to keep up.

Cohabitation can teach you a lot about someone. My new roommate follows me around with a vacuum to get those blonde hairs and cookie crumbs sucked up, does the laundry EVERY day, irons his socks, underwear and Tshirts, AND has four closets organized like a Banana Republic….10 white shirts, 10 blue shirts, 10 blue shirts with stripes, 10 dark blue shirts, 10 dark blue shirts with stripes, 10 pairs of khakis, 10 Armani suits, 3 black and 3 brown pairs of Pradas, Italian gym shoes that cost $300 and look like what grandpa wore in 1985, a collection of D&G leather belts, 10 watches ranging from $5K-$25K ea in a humidity-controlled chamber, and countless other European designer fashions of whom I can not pronounce or spell the names.

Kelly Raw – TMI (too much information, as usual)
Most of you know that I can be very vulgar in speaking of bodily functions, so if you are a bit prudish or do not wish to hear about my personal issues, stop reading now. NOW I SAY! I have already shared my diaper rash problem from biking long distances in sweaty spandex. Combine that with a Brazilian (the people in the next room must have thought I was suffering from Tourettes syndrome when I had it), not seeing your boyfriend for 3 weeks, being dehydrated for three days after a 200km ride in the Orient, you have the perfect storm for a fungal infection.

Now granted I pride myself for getting to be 37 years old without suffering from a yeast infection, I still am not keen on going to see a doctor, especially in Thailand. Instead, I consulted Google for symptoms, prescriptions and home remedies. Since it is difficult to find Monistat 7 in the 7-Elevens of Thailand, I raided the yogurt from the hotel breakfast bar. Most of the websites recommend yogurt as the cure all for yeast infections and can offer handy tips on how to get it up there. I was not about to make yogurt popsicles to stick up my couchie.

Now all was good until after I got rained on during the ride and went straight for a Thai massage. Usually I wear my undies during massages, but I did not wear any with my spandex, which was now soaked from the rain. Therefore, I was getting my contortionist massage in the buff. All was fine until the little Thai woman started walking all over my back, putting pressure on my stomach and, of course, squeezing the yogurt out. Now the masseuse must of though that whitey wide-eyes was either really excited by the massage, or she is suffering from some really bad STD. On Seinfeld, you might get that from riding the tractor with no undies....