I was in a little town in a distant land. The town’s walls were painted with the most beautiful glows and swirls of saturated color–turquoise and golden and crimson and green and lavender–and anyone could add to them with their own paintbrush. A beautiful young woman was painting one of the walls. She was Scandinavian-looking, with a rag tied over her pale blonde hair, and seemed joyful. The town was somewhat Mediterranean, a bit like the strange “underground” town of Atrani with its winding passageways, and a bit like a vision of India, poor and hot and exotic, with mud-walled huts.

From 3/13:
I went camping with Gandhi, two angels, Michelle, and a couple of aunts (none of my real ones, but generic relatives). I had given Gandhi a hug earlier, and he looked very uncomfortable and pulled away, saying it made him feel like having an affair. I tried not to let it bother me, but then I had to say goodbye to everyone at the end of the trip. The first person in the car was an auntie; I hugged her goodbye. The second person was Michelle. She had freckles across her nose. I had a jolt of surprise for a minute because I hadn’t remembered her being there at all; then, thinking about it, I remembered that we had had a significant reunion–emotionally significant, and I felt the sort of self-centered guilt that one feels when forgetting the name of someone who clearly remembers yours. I hugged her as well. I remembered a snippet: I was holding her as she struggled to stand up. She said, “I have to throw up,” and threw up on my sleeve, and kept talking and throwing up more, intermittently. Next up in the car’s backseat was an angel. I didn’t hug the angel, because I wasn’t Christian, and I wasn’t sure if it would hurt me somehow to touch it. Next was Gandhi. Remembering his bad reaction earlier, I knelt down in front of him (the space between the back seats and front seats was very wide) and bowed my head, and said, “Mr. Gandhi, sir, it was a real honor to meet you.” He looked angry, though, and didn’t say a word. I looked expectantly at him, and he continued to ignore me. He was wearing nylon workout pants over his dhoti. The last person in the backseat was the other angel. I said goodbye to this angel as well, with a little wave, and left the car. I was now walking down a Disneyland-like pedestrians-only cobblestone street with strangely fake-looking bars on either side decorated with dry branches and such–they reminded me of Grove, on Fillmore, or of dimly lit furniture stores. One was called Cafe Kati, but it bore no resemblance to the real place–it had a bunch of red velvet curtains in the window and seemed far more swanky and upscale. I was walking alone, but I remembered having another conversation with someone after the goodbyes in the car. He said Gandhi was upset because I had paid more respect to him than to the angels. I felt mistaken, confused, and hurt. I had only wanted to touch his feet to pay my respects to him. In some ways, though, he was right–I had been more in awe of him than of the angels, and wanted to honor him more. I wouldn’t have cared if I hadn’t been able to express my love to the angels, but it had been so important to me to let Gandhi know how deeply I respected him, and it had been wrenching that he wouldn’t even say goodbye to me.