for all of you still checking out this blog while I've been hibernating: i suggest you sway with the new breeze to Sof Ha'olam Smola, my new blog (www.sofhaolamsmola.blogspot.com). My sights are now set on israel - and the new blog will contain some ramblings and articles about my thoughts of israel and the aliyah process from the very beginning.
Sarah is still a nomad, but making her way home... xx
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Bollywood Bombshells
I love this city. I just love it. I love the fact I don't wear a watch and I forget what day it is (at least here in Mumbai I'm allowed to - In Melbourne it's not really the done thing).
I love zigzagging the traffic - having finally mastered the art of crossing the India road amongst bikes, scooters, taxis, rickshaws, trucks and buses. I feel like I've conquered Southern Mumbai - having walked the back streets and main roads for hours, I am familiar with the markets, the fishing docks, and the endless crowded stalls lining the pavement.
But what I love most about Mumbai is the people. They seem happier and content, they make up the massive ocean that overlows this teeming city. This city has culture, a rich history, magnificent architecture, and incredible food - what more could a girl want?
Bollywood. I wanna be a superstar - so where else but Bollywood?
Last year Nechama and I missed the season for Bollywood extras - due to bad timing and pure exhaustion from all our travelling up north. Besides, Mumbai was too expensive to go out - it's noted as one of the most expensive (comparitively) city in all of India.
I lost all belief that I'd be picked up to act as an extra in a film - yet low and behold, on Saturday morning, Sunday morning and afternoon - I was approached by three Bollywood agents wanting me to work for them. How lucky is that.
I turned down the first one - I was to dress in a sari and just say Namaste for an entire evening at an Indian wedding (I already had plans to meet my friends that night, which I was looking forward to - and agreed to the second and third agent. I was to be an extra in an advertisement that, while it was produced in India, it was to be shown abroad. Nobody could tell us what the add was about - we were told at first it was a public service campaign, then part of a series of campaign ads, then we were told itwas an experimental film - we only discovered what it was at the very end of the night. Dodgy.
The ad was set in Paris, on a cold, misty winter's night. We were first hushed into a room and given tea. Then the stylist came in and barked orders at the hair and makeup artists. I was second in line. Apparently, French girls has straight hair, and after oohiing and ahhing at my billowing curly mop, they finally agreed to let me keep the curls. Thank god. To 'crunch' my hair and preserve the ringlets, the hair stlyist pulled back my hair fron my face, and ran a bursh more than a few times through my hair. I didn't mind, for as I said to them at the start - "It's up to you. i'm all yours" - so who was I to complain. Besides, I could always wash it. She spritzed some water/rpduct through it and kept it tied back while the 'makeup artist' - a small man qith a quivering hand and an apron full of paints - woked on my pink eyeshadow and bright red rouge. Apparently French fashion, so they said.
I was one of the first to play dress ups with the wadrobe - because that's exactly how it was, playing dressups and purim with a Salvation Army clothing bin. The stylist kept barking orders to her male minions to pull this sweater out, and these pair of slacks (because thats what the pants were - a loose ill-coloured pair of men's daggy trousers, yukko) and unzip that jacket, and put these multi-coloured socks on to go with high heels.
I was first given a tiny wollen ribbed turtle-neck jumper. I took one look at it and burst out laughing. Holding it against myself, I showed the others (a British couple, an American, two French students and another ditzy Australian lawyer) how it would fit my arm. But I tried it on anyway, and as I emerged form the bathroom with the jumper riding up my waist, pulling at every corners I possess, well, we packed it in with laughter. There was no going back now.
The seocnd outfit I was made to try on was a birght magenta tight short skirt. With ruffles. Truly French fashion. Uh huh. The stylist then handed me a tiny tiny pink camisole and a grey jacket - I was supposedly dressed for work.
Let me interrupt myself here and tell you what I wore (from my own clothes) to the shoot.My pair of jeans (for I knew no pants would fit me), my Converse (with socks) and a loose fitting teeshirt. Fair enough, given that I had no idea what they were going to dress me in.
After I told them my shoe size (and recieved a look of horror) I was told to quickly get out of my extra-tight skirt (to my relief) and keep my jeans and shoes on. Thank god. They tied a chequered scarf around ym neck and pointed my to the set, where men were waving shallow pans of incense around high-powered fans. It was the start of a smokey evening.
I was supposed to be browsing in a bookshop named 'Antique Printed Books' in English. Pity this ad was set in France. The Bakery was called just that (not Patisserie) and the car was on the left side of the road. Hrmm, not so good with consistency there.
The night was made up going back and forth sorting through books while the cmaera was trained on the main couple, who were speaking in French. The woman was a very thin and tall Indian model who had picked up Frnech living in Switzerland, and the man was a French journalist on his first Bollywood experience. It was a mess.
The Indian girl kept mucking up her lines, and couldn't act for her life. It was a very tedious five hours standing in winter clothing under a hot spotlight and thick incense-aze.
Nevertheless, it was a fun experience. The French students kept picking out strange lines - we finally knew what it was about.
Baby wipes.
Weird.
I love zigzagging the traffic - having finally mastered the art of crossing the India road amongst bikes, scooters, taxis, rickshaws, trucks and buses. I feel like I've conquered Southern Mumbai - having walked the back streets and main roads for hours, I am familiar with the markets, the fishing docks, and the endless crowded stalls lining the pavement.
But what I love most about Mumbai is the people. They seem happier and content, they make up the massive ocean that overlows this teeming city. This city has culture, a rich history, magnificent architecture, and incredible food - what more could a girl want?
Bollywood. I wanna be a superstar - so where else but Bollywood?
Last year Nechama and I missed the season for Bollywood extras - due to bad timing and pure exhaustion from all our travelling up north. Besides, Mumbai was too expensive to go out - it's noted as one of the most expensive (comparitively) city in all of India.
I lost all belief that I'd be picked up to act as an extra in a film - yet low and behold, on Saturday morning, Sunday morning and afternoon - I was approached by three Bollywood agents wanting me to work for them. How lucky is that.
I turned down the first one - I was to dress in a sari and just say Namaste for an entire evening at an Indian wedding (I already had plans to meet my friends that night, which I was looking forward to - and agreed to the second and third agent. I was to be an extra in an advertisement that, while it was produced in India, it was to be shown abroad. Nobody could tell us what the add was about - we were told at first it was a public service campaign, then part of a series of campaign ads, then we were told itwas an experimental film - we only discovered what it was at the very end of the night. Dodgy.
The ad was set in Paris, on a cold, misty winter's night. We were first hushed into a room and given tea. Then the stylist came in and barked orders at the hair and makeup artists. I was second in line. Apparently, French girls has straight hair, and after oohiing and ahhing at my billowing curly mop, they finally agreed to let me keep the curls. Thank god. To 'crunch' my hair and preserve the ringlets, the hair stlyist pulled back my hair fron my face, and ran a bursh more than a few times through my hair. I didn't mind, for as I said to them at the start - "It's up to you. i'm all yours" - so who was I to complain. Besides, I could always wash it. She spritzed some water/rpduct through it and kept it tied back while the 'makeup artist' - a small man qith a quivering hand and an apron full of paints - woked on my pink eyeshadow and bright red rouge. Apparently French fashion, so they said.
I was one of the first to play dress ups with the wadrobe - because that's exactly how it was, playing dressups and purim with a Salvation Army clothing bin. The stylist kept barking orders to her male minions to pull this sweater out, and these pair of slacks (because thats what the pants were - a loose ill-coloured pair of men's daggy trousers, yukko) and unzip that jacket, and put these multi-coloured socks on to go with high heels.
I was first given a tiny wollen ribbed turtle-neck jumper. I took one look at it and burst out laughing. Holding it against myself, I showed the others (a British couple, an American, two French students and another ditzy Australian lawyer) how it would fit my arm. But I tried it on anyway, and as I emerged form the bathroom with the jumper riding up my waist, pulling at every corners I possess, well, we packed it in with laughter. There was no going back now.
The seocnd outfit I was made to try on was a birght magenta tight short skirt. With ruffles. Truly French fashion. Uh huh. The stylist then handed me a tiny tiny pink camisole and a grey jacket - I was supposedly dressed for work.
Let me interrupt myself here and tell you what I wore (from my own clothes) to the shoot.My pair of jeans (for I knew no pants would fit me), my Converse (with socks) and a loose fitting teeshirt. Fair enough, given that I had no idea what they were going to dress me in.
After I told them my shoe size (and recieved a look of horror) I was told to quickly get out of my extra-tight skirt (to my relief) and keep my jeans and shoes on. Thank god. They tied a chequered scarf around ym neck and pointed my to the set, where men were waving shallow pans of incense around high-powered fans. It was the start of a smokey evening.
I was supposed to be browsing in a bookshop named 'Antique Printed Books' in English. Pity this ad was set in France. The Bakery was called just that (not Patisserie) and the car was on the left side of the road. Hrmm, not so good with consistency there.
The night was made up going back and forth sorting through books while the cmaera was trained on the main couple, who were speaking in French. The woman was a very thin and tall Indian model who had picked up Frnech living in Switzerland, and the man was a French journalist on his first Bollywood experience. It was a mess.
The Indian girl kept mucking up her lines, and couldn't act for her life. It was a very tedious five hours standing in winter clothing under a hot spotlight and thick incense-aze.
Nevertheless, it was a fun experience. The French students kept picking out strange lines - we finally knew what it was about.
Baby wipes.
Weird.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
A life without plans...
I only had one plan when arriving in Mumbai - eat Friday night dinner at Chabad. That was enough for me - and it was the kinda plan that's foolproof. If I didn't meet anyone - at least I would've scored a free meal and heard kiddush in Mumbai. If I did - well, maybe I could score some travelling partners or someone to grab a beer with.
I was successful in both respects: I met an a fellow melbourne boy who I had met at the Belgian Beer Gardnes the previous saturday night, a dutch israel entrepeneur (my age, however) and we all went for a beer at the infamous pub Leopold's after dinner. I've read a lot about this pub from the book Shantaram - but I never visited it last year (overpriced drinks, bad timing). It was fun to be served Foster's beer in a massive cylindrical tube that fits a pitcher of beer. We were later joined by two of the dutch's indian friends (the dutchman's living in mumbai until july) and we all got on very well. After a couple pints we headed down to a shishah bar - we got an insight into Mumbai that would have never happened better a mere 'tourist'.
Today I headed down to the famed Crawford Market - the fruit/veg/spice/pet/whatever you wish market of Bombay. Much like any other market in foreign countries, the produce spills over into the street, insistent shopkeepers yelling their products, beckoning you with curled fingers - 'come here madam, look here'. I became a little bored by it all - the 'market keeper', an elderly man (who I suspected wanting to be paid for 'minding me' against beggars) followed me around from store to store - and so I walked off the beaten trail and stumbled into a maze of streets selling plastics, flashing neon lights, tacky handbags, until reaching the cloth market.
Man, Indian's have gorgeous fabrics. I was tempted to buy some, but those who know my track record for doing things to objects i purchase overseas realise that there's no point. It will be a waste of money and room in my backpack - I won't follow through.
I'm running outta steam. I'll publish more later....
I was successful in both respects: I met an a fellow melbourne boy who I had met at the Belgian Beer Gardnes the previous saturday night, a dutch israel entrepeneur (my age, however) and we all went for a beer at the infamous pub Leopold's after dinner. I've read a lot about this pub from the book Shantaram - but I never visited it last year (overpriced drinks, bad timing). It was fun to be served Foster's beer in a massive cylindrical tube that fits a pitcher of beer. We were later joined by two of the dutch's indian friends (the dutchman's living in mumbai until july) and we all got on very well. After a couple pints we headed down to a shishah bar - we got an insight into Mumbai that would have never happened better a mere 'tourist'.
Today I headed down to the famed Crawford Market - the fruit/veg/spice/pet/whatever you wish market of Bombay. Much like any other market in foreign countries, the produce spills over into the street, insistent shopkeepers yelling their products, beckoning you with curled fingers - 'come here madam, look here'. I became a little bored by it all - the 'market keeper', an elderly man (who I suspected wanting to be paid for 'minding me' against beggars) followed me around from store to store - and so I walked off the beaten trail and stumbled into a maze of streets selling plastics, flashing neon lights, tacky handbags, until reaching the cloth market.
Man, Indian's have gorgeous fabrics. I was tempted to buy some, but those who know my track record for doing things to objects i purchase overseas realise that there's no point. It will be a waste of money and room in my backpack - I won't follow through.
I'm running outta steam. I'll publish more later....
Friday, December 07, 2007
Mumbai Take #2
As my taxi inched away from the airport last night - I remarked how even though it's been a year since I left this bustling, overflowing, energetic city, it feels like only a month ago. My taxi driver wasn't interested and remained silent.
It was 11.30 pm and the streets were still crowded - people milling about, laughing, sipping chai and chatting in groups. The dogs were still prowling, the trucks still honking, the air was still thick and dirty and I loved every minute of my taxi journey to my hotel with the window wound down.
Walking around colaba it was like nothing had changed - and I wonder what would have changed in a year?
So, what did I do today? I walked. I followed the hoards of Indians getting somewhere and from 11 AM I walked around the South of Mumbai - except I had nowhere to get. Walking in circles, narrowly missing oncoming traffic, getting lost, loving getting lost, turning around, narrowly missing cows and motorcycles (actually, that's pure fabrication, i saw some cows, and bikes as well, but thats about it). I stopped walking at 4 15 PM to get back to my room to get ready for Chabad. Yes, that's right, Sarah is going JewGirl in India. And I love it.
Why walk around with nothing to do/see and with nobody to share? Coz it was an incredible experience - I felt safe, relaxed, and somewhat at home. Wtf? At home in Mumbai? Yes, weird, but true.
anyway, I have to run - but before I go, I have to say, I know Indians stare, but if i made any money on how many stares/comments i recieved today, as well as giggles about my height - i could buy a nice mansion in colaba and live here for a while.
One guy was jogging in a whole sports outfit - he stopped and said, very nice heigh madam, and kept on running. Just to give you a picture.
x
It was 11.30 pm and the streets were still crowded - people milling about, laughing, sipping chai and chatting in groups. The dogs were still prowling, the trucks still honking, the air was still thick and dirty and I loved every minute of my taxi journey to my hotel with the window wound down.
Walking around colaba it was like nothing had changed - and I wonder what would have changed in a year?
So, what did I do today? I walked. I followed the hoards of Indians getting somewhere and from 11 AM I walked around the South of Mumbai - except I had nowhere to get. Walking in circles, narrowly missing oncoming traffic, getting lost, loving getting lost, turning around, narrowly missing cows and motorcycles (actually, that's pure fabrication, i saw some cows, and bikes as well, but thats about it). I stopped walking at 4 15 PM to get back to my room to get ready for Chabad. Yes, that's right, Sarah is going JewGirl in India. And I love it.
Why walk around with nothing to do/see and with nobody to share? Coz it was an incredible experience - I felt safe, relaxed, and somewhat at home. Wtf? At home in Mumbai? Yes, weird, but true.
anyway, I have to run - but before I go, I have to say, I know Indians stare, but if i made any money on how many stares/comments i recieved today, as well as giggles about my height - i could buy a nice mansion in colaba and live here for a while.
One guy was jogging in a whole sports outfit - he stopped and said, very nice heigh madam, and kept on running. Just to give you a picture.
x
Thursday, December 06, 2007
In Transit
Another year, another adventure, another refreshment of Sarah The Nomad.
This time I'm revisiting old haunts, going back to places where I've experienced the ultimate happiness, and I'm not looking behind me. I'm also travelling alone.
This journey has been a long time in the making. Thanks to my family and friend for helping me get here (finally!) - and now that I'm here, there is a sense of overwhelming calm. Rest. Quiet.
Perhaps it's my stopover in Singapore (where i'm currently writing from) that has given me this feeling. I woke up much earlier than I had anticipated, and since my phone clock is set to an hour later than Singapore's actual time, I walked the streets before most shops had opened. The roads were quiet, nearly empty, and I spent the entire morning listening to Zero 7 walking the streets of SIngapore in the rain. Pure bliss.
Singapore is a shopping paradise. Pity I'm not interested. I would go nuts if I had all the money in the world - designer shops, gucci, chanel, george jensen, prada, ysl - i go gaga just window shopping. But that's the limit of my retail interaction. And man, are those window outfitters talented.
I walked along Zion Rd (loved the name), tried my luck to have a sneak peek at the Raffles Hotel, and admired the local shule from afar. I wondered why, as Jews, therer is this sense of attraction to check out the local synagogues in the countries we visit. Do Israelis do it? Do any other Jews do it? Or is it just me?
This post is really about nothing, just an introduction to the next saga in Sarah The Nomad. The posts won't be plain retelling of my actions, I promise. It's just so hot and muggy and grey in this bland city - I'm spent.
Over and out, y'all.
This time I'm revisiting old haunts, going back to places where I've experienced the ultimate happiness, and I'm not looking behind me. I'm also travelling alone.
This journey has been a long time in the making. Thanks to my family and friend for helping me get here (finally!) - and now that I'm here, there is a sense of overwhelming calm. Rest. Quiet.
Perhaps it's my stopover in Singapore (where i'm currently writing from) that has given me this feeling. I woke up much earlier than I had anticipated, and since my phone clock is set to an hour later than Singapore's actual time, I walked the streets before most shops had opened. The roads were quiet, nearly empty, and I spent the entire morning listening to Zero 7 walking the streets of SIngapore in the rain. Pure bliss.
Singapore is a shopping paradise. Pity I'm not interested. I would go nuts if I had all the money in the world - designer shops, gucci, chanel, george jensen, prada, ysl - i go gaga just window shopping. But that's the limit of my retail interaction. And man, are those window outfitters talented.
I walked along Zion Rd (loved the name), tried my luck to have a sneak peek at the Raffles Hotel, and admired the local shule from afar. I wondered why, as Jews, therer is this sense of attraction to check out the local synagogues in the countries we visit. Do Israelis do it? Do any other Jews do it? Or is it just me?
This post is really about nothing, just an introduction to the next saga in Sarah The Nomad. The posts won't be plain retelling of my actions, I promise. It's just so hot and muggy and grey in this bland city - I'm spent.
Over and out, y'all.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
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