Childish.

(I'm trying out new blog titles - bare with me, could mean random changes.)

They’ve been packing our weekends to the brim. So we get to see more of what Dr. Rao and the other professors think are important. But sometimes I just want to sleep in until 11, lie in bed watching Harry Potter movies until 2, and spend the rest of the day reading, playing guitar, eating a slow brunch, and shooting the shit with the other students.

“So how are you feeling about this trip tomorrow?” Jason asks.

I was initially excited about the idea of taking in the India countryside through the windows of the bus. Then I came to my senses of the reality of spending six long hours in one.

Nobody really wants to go to the organic farm. They already took us to one. And honestly, if you’ve seen one organic farm – well, palm trees and radishes pretty much all look the same.

“I say we all get together and tell Rao we don’t want to go. He can’t say no to all of us.”

Despite my brilliant idea to boycott, the majority of us load the bus. The road is so bumpy there’s no possible way I can sleep or read. I kill time by braiding James’ hair while he’s passed out in the seat in front of me.

We arrive. We tour the farm. Super. Another farm. Smashing.

Before heading to the next stop, a watershed, rains begin to fall in heavy sheets. The temperature plummets, too. Goose bumps erupt over my skin. I want to go home. But our guides decide it’s more important for us to continue with the tour than get dry and warm...

“Oh what the F*ck!” I exclaim. “ You made us sit in a dinky frickin’ bus for hours just to stare at bushes, and get sunburned and eaten alive by mosquitoes. Now I’m freezing and soggy and pissed off. I don’t want to look at your stupid watershed or hear some old guy talk about agriculture. I just want to get in the bus, take the god damned ride home and eat pizza!”

Then I throw myself onto the floor, flail my limbs around and cry as loud as a can until they succumb to my racket and bring us home.

OK, that doesn’t happen. I don’t throw a tantrum. I sit there like a perfect angel - smiling, nodding, and maintaining a general air of interest, while staring over some field or cramped in a little office. And I’m pretty sure other students are playing the same game.

Marie says what she really feels like doing is puddle jumping. But because she’d have to be be muddy and dirty for the next few hours, she is holding back.

Puddle jumping would be fun.

I’m sure there are times when we've all wanted whine and cry and kick and scream until we get our way. Or stopped or stopped ourselves from doing something “childish”. I guess it’s just one of the unfortunate side affects of being “grown up.” You use patience. Lots and lots of patience and control.

Much later, all of us trudge back onto the bus in waterlogged shoes, smelling like dirty wet dog. All of us expect Jeremy; he’s been sprawled out asleep in the back of the bus since we left the first stop.

He sleeps like a baby most of the ride home, while I have the pleasure of listening to some of the guys, and 7-year-old Evan, reminisce about their favorite video games.

“I used to go to the arcade with 25 dollars in quarters and play X-men until I beat it,” Alex said, “Remember the Aladdin game?”

“Aw, yes! That was a classic! Everyone loved it. Who was your favorite character in Donkey Kong?”

“I don’t think you’ve contributed much to the conversation, Becca,” James calls to me. My childhood revolved around Legos, Barbies, and Forbidden Bridge, not Sega and Nintendo.

“Um, I played Mario Kart once in seventh grade,” I say. “And I like guitar hero.”

This goes on nearly the entire ride. I’m actually enjoying the display of male bonding via mutual childhood memories. I guess if video games are good for something, they are good at providing men who grew up all across America with something in common. Who would have thought video games hold the power to transcend space and time?

Evan leaves the conversation when he realizes his dad has woken up.

“Are we there yet?” He yells into his dad’s year.

“We better be!” Jeremy goes off, loud enough for a couple rows of bus to hear. “I can’t believe this. What a waste of a whole damned day! Seriously, I can’t believe they carted us to the middle of nowhere to look at another frickin’ farm! I could have been sleeping. So stupid! So frickin’ stupid!”

For a minute it’s hard to tell who’s the son and who’s the 30-year-old father. But I wish one of them would have pulled this stunt when it might have done us all a little good. It seems the kid’s still in all of us, we just all deal with that little bugger differently.

By the time we roll up to Dhvanyaloka, I'm quite the tired girl. I drag myself up the stairs and collapse on my bed. It would be nice if someone could get me a glass of water, read me a story, tuck me in and kiss my forehead before turning out the lights.

But it’s just me, alone in my room, in India.

Next door, it’s just my neighbor, along in his room, in India.

And the door next to his...and the door next to hers...

No matter how hard we try to resist, even if sometimes we want to splash in mud, slingshot rocks at coconuts, or throw a hissy fit, this place must be making us all grow up a little bit.