Eyes Everywhere
New Year’s Day, 2011
My friends and I stepped down from the bus. The chilly clay crunched under my boots.
The air was hazy. Any illusion of clarity was dispelled when I raised my eyes to see the blacktop highway dissolve into a floating haze of humidity and moisture-bound truck exhaust.
My mind was also hazy. It was morning, and I had awoken only a few hours earlier from a few hours' sleep after being awake for the 56 hours prior. Long layovers though we had, I had not been able to sleep since taking off from Pensacola.
Sir went to a roadside snack shack to restock on Lay’s Tomato Tango, while those of us who had doubled down on morning tea sidled around the back of a shuttered garage to answer nature’s call.
Spike’s voice, always from the diaphragm, fired out from the far corner of the building.
“I’m having performance issues,” he muttered. “That monkey won’t stop watching me.”
I looked overhead and saw a cartload of monkeys spread out across the roof. A few observed our relief with academic disinterest, while one closest to me sat contemplating God’s good potato.
I laughed. Spike continued.
“I hate the monkeys. You should have seen them in Shimla. They’ll attack out of nowhere.”
At this, I sobered a tad and finished my business, one wary eye on the monkey troop.
We returned to a crowd around the bus. We were deep in Bihar, about as far off the tourist trail as we could be without swimming open water. Fresh faces, much less a rag tag gaggle of Americans, stood out in a little town like this. It seemed half the town had turned out to laugh at our sincere-yet-ham-handed attempts at pronunciation of “naya saal shayari.”
The bus’s interior was just as smoggy as the air outside. I adjusted my neckerchief back over my mouth and nose as I cleared the step into the bus.
Before ducking all the way inside the vehicle, I realized just how many faces, mostly kids, were watching us. I grabbed the rickety support bar in the bus door and leaned out to snap a few frames. The diversity of the expressions makes me smile every time.
So began my first full day in India.
Married in Killington, Vermont: Brian and Carly
Wedding recap meets travelogue as I fly from Pensacola to the mountains of Vermont to capture an old friend's wedding in beautiful Killington, VT.
Brian and Carly, wed 10/04/2015
Almost a year ago, I received the following message.
Carly is an old friend. She was active in the Pensacola photography scene as a model and graphic artist several years ago before moving to Maryland. I had photographed a number of projects with her (one of which her fiance said was his all-time favorite photo set of her), and we had always had a good time collaborating. At the prospect of photographing Carly's wedding, in Vermont, in the fall, it was not in my nature to decline.
Eleven months later...
When the airport check-in desk asks "how much do you weigh?"
When I say that Killington Grand Resort is tucked away in the mountains of Eastern Vermont, I mean that it is truly tucked away. My route north from Pensacola ended with a final flight from Boston to Lebanon, NH aboard a Cessna 404 Titan, which made me regret my heavy lunch as the tiny plane skirted just over the mountaintops and settled down into Lebanon Municipal Airport. I met Carly's parents at the gate and together we drove to Killington.
Meeting Vermont
Whoa.
Annie's work schedule didn't allow for her to accompany me on this trip, so I checked into the lodge on my lonesome and spent the evening checking gear and topping up battery charges. I slept in the next morning and took some time to hike around the lake and get a feel for the lodge. Vermont in October makes an amazing first impression. I had never been that far north before, and I am blessed to have made my first trip during the most perfect time of the year. I was blown away by the natural beauty of the surroundings, and everyone I met in the lodge rivaled their Southern counterparts in their friendliness and hospitality.
The Wedding
2 p.m. rolled around and we started the photos. Working solo, I bounced back and forth between Carly and Brian's dress-up areas, acquainting myself with Brian for the first time and getting to know the family and friends. Carly and Brian are a laid back, fun couple, and their friends and family are as well.
Surrounded by good vibes and beautiful scenery, the ceremony commenced. Did I fail to mention that Carly is a first-rate comic book nerd? She is, and her dad stole the show by tearing his shirt open before walking her down the aisle to reveal a Superman uniform underneath. #RelationshipGoals. Seriously.
Brian and Carly both claiming Scottish heritage, the ceremony featured traditional Scottish elements, such as literally "tying the knot" with Brian's clan tartan and a ceremonial drink of Scotch whisky from the Loving Cup. The couple kissed as the shadows grew long and we captured some stunning images in the golden hour light.
Following the ceremony and photos, the reception escalated into a 10-alarm party in no time. Between the open bar and the genuinely fun-loving natures of all parties involved, it was the most crazy/fun party I've had the opportunity to shoot in some time. Scotland prevailed over the party yet again as Brian and his groomsmen briefly disappeared from the reception and returned in boots and kilts to finish the night.
Since everyone was staying at the lodge, there was no formal exit. Rather the entire party moved to an upstairs room and passed the rest of the evening with drinks and conversation. I had planned to retire after the reception to pack and get some sleep before rising early in the morning, but Brian wouldn't hear of it. You know you're photographing an amazing couple when they invite you to the after-party, sans camera!
All in all, shooting this wedding was a huge blessing to me, and it is with great pleasure that I delivered their photos a few weeks ago. Congratulations again, Brian and Carly.
India, Day 2 - The lonely way to travel.
I have a love/hate relationship with transatlantic air travel. I like having nine hours to relax, but I dislike doing it in a metal tube filled with recycled air.
I like movies, but I dislike four-inch screens.
I enjoy conversations with new people, but planes always carry the threat of a seatmate whose bulk occupies both his own seat and part of mine. Worse yet, I've previously been caught next to talkative sad sacks, and with nowhere to run or hide, they depressed me with their life stories for hours at a time.
All that said, I generally enjoy the experience of air travel, even flying coach. Even at its worst, flying gives me dedicated time to catch up on some reading. Post-college, reading has taken on a new significance, because I finally have the luxury of choosing my own books. Based on the recommendation of a friend, I chose to bring a book on the trip that was very, very special: Shantaram, by Gregory David Roberts. Set in India during the 1980s, there was little difference between what was on the pages and what I saw firsthand in India every time I put the book down. If you have not read it, I highly recommend that you do so, sooner rather than later.
Aside from a reading and some intermittent movie-watching, my flight from Miami to London was uneventful. I managed to sleep a little bit as well, which always helps kill time. Someday I'll learn to take some Tylenol PM every time I fly, so I can just go right to sleep and be blissfully unaware of the passing time. After nine hours, I touched down in London early in the morning and was met by a familiar sign.
As I entered the terminal, following the familiar path through the "B Gates" in the international terminal, I grinned for a couple of reasons. The first reason was the knowledge that I would be returning to Britain at the end of my trip, and for the first time, I would actually get out of the airport and see England itself. As many times as I had connected through Heathrow, I had never actually set foot on English soil.
My second reason for grinning was the sight of several information screens held hostage by my old arch-nemesis, the Blue Screen of Death. I had no idea the old blue screen still afflicted modern computer systems, much less in airport terminal displays, but there it was, big as life.
As I said, it was early. Early enough to eat breakfast, although my body clock was so confuzzled by the time change that I might have actually been craving lunch or dinner. This is one point of my travel recaps that will remain problematic. On a good day, I am hopeless at processing numbers. Dramatic time changes and long flights exacerbate this weakness and make it even harder for me to remember details that aren't logged in my journal or with photographs. Details like exact times.
Where was I? Oh yes, breakfast. Or, "brekkie," as they say in the UK. I love that term. "Brekkie." Fun to say.
One of my favorite things about England is, honestly, the food. I don't know why England's traditional fare has been the black sheep of world cuisine for so long, because I find it delicious. Traditional British food is certainly simpler and less magazine-ready than, say, French or Italian cuisine, but that is actually what I love most about it. There's been a renaissance in British cooking in recent years, and top-tier gastronomy is dramatically changing the modern opinions regarding British cuisine, but I will always be a fan of the classics. From the delicacies and to the pub grub, it is simple, hearty fare, always savory and always satisfying. Especially the traditional English breakfast. Eggs, sausage, bacon, beans, tomato and potatoes. I can't think of a more comforting eating experience.
Breakfast moved to the top of my action list, I entered Giraffe, had my brekkie (I love that word) and a cup of good coffee. The repast over, I sat in the atrium of the terminal with my journal and wrote. As I got still and focused on the blank page, I became aware of an odd feeling. The last two times I had flown--including the last time I had gone through Heathrow--I had been with friends. I was retracing the same path to India, but I was doing it alone.
Alone. That's a naughty word when you're traveling. I've traveled alone plenty of times, and had fun doing it, but after several trips in a row with other people, I missed the company. I missed them badly, in fact. I have to confess that my trips to India aren't just mission trips. Selfishly, I look forward to the chance to spend ten days at close quarters with good friends from another state who I don't see at any other time during the year. And now I was doing the India thing again, but they weren't there with me. In the film The Third Man, Orson Welles' character, a sociopathic gangster, says from atop a ferris wheel: "Don't be melodramatic. Look down there. Tell me. Would you really feel any pity if one of those dots stopped moving forever?" In that moment, tired and listless and with no one to talk to, I felt like a dot.
This was the first of several such moments that I had during the course of my journey. When I was actually in India, I returned to several places where I had served on earlier trips. Coming back was strange, because the paradigms were so drastically different. Whereas the first time I went to this or that place, I was with friends, and often arrived there after a bus ride filled with conversation, laugher and even the occasional song. On this trip, however, I visited these places as the "silent partner" of various hosts, with almost every word out of my mouth requiring translation into Hindi or a local language before they could be understood. Having such strong memories so far from home, and even in a place like Heathrow, was a new and surreal experience, made slightly depressing by the removal of all the familiar and positive emotional associations. It almost felt like I had lost something, or someone.
In this incredibly positive state of mind (irony alert!), I sat in Heathrow and journaled my thoughts onto paper. My plane left in the late afternoon, and before departure, I also translated my mild sadness into a bit of emotional eating by buying a cappuccino and a bar of dark chocolate for an early dinner--my last Western indulgence before committing myself to India for six weeks. That decision has not gone down in the annals of "Steven's Personal Best;" to the contrary, the assault of milk and sugar on my stomach, unaccompanied by any other solid food, made the flight uncomfortable and set me up for a very tired landing in India.
My re-entry into Incredible India will be covered later this week. I am slowly realizing that my writing consecutive entries as long-form narratives is a little too time-consuming, so you may look forward to shorter but more frequent entries in coming weeks. Stay tuned!