I'm an insomniac in India, at 4am on an early Monday morning. What is it that dispels my sleeping spell? Is it some strange connection, some far-reaching invisible telegraph wire to the homeland? And what is the homeland that I remember? My friend Ken just sent me an Internet article that declares Tacoma, Washington (locale of my university days) to be the most stressed-out city in America, itself perhaps one of the most stressed out countries in the world. Impressive.

Why, then, would I wake up in the middle of the night, in the middle of my year abroad, and long for some time back at the roost? It's some combination of friends, family, my guitar, some needed sense of belonging, and an apetite for the slow fruits that only come with sedentary life - all the while that hinduism assaults my misidentification with "self."

And it is also something more. Yesterday, I watched a movie: an artless Hollywood romance production. Were I living in the States I would never have done this, but here, I'm from the outside looking back in, and I am consumed by the tackiness and actually enjoy it - what's more, I think I begin to understand how America can seem like a paradise, a place of dreams come true. Through the television screen, the happy endings never cease - they endlessly persist in America. And, somehow, though I new it was all contrived, even I was a victim of the warm fuzzy feeling. Caught by my own nation's ingeniously subtle propaganda export.

But is the American in me diluting? Last night, amongst a crowd, I met a Pakistani law student who spoke good english. He insisted that I was only pretending my American accent - that I was actually a European in disguise. I think there's some truth to it - along the way I've met so few Americans and so many from Europe that I think my intonations have changed, and perhaps even my choice of words as I attempt to avoid idiomatic confusions. Perhaps somewhere along the way, I've lost some of the American in me. But I wager it's still there as always, I'm just increasingly aware of it - aware of otherwise inexplainable characteristics that go beyond what most foreigners usually bear: Maybe it's an efficiency mind, or a casual fiestiness. Of course, in any reflection such as this, it's hard to say what represents you and what represents your country.

Certainly the homesickness is not due to any lack of hospitality from India. Edgy though I might have been upon arrival, my time here so far has been full of friendliness and trust. The Gujaratis speak what broken English they have (which is generally less than most Thais) and we entertain ourselves in a game of miscommunication. Last night, I spent a patient hour in the company of a motley of muslims. All of them friendly and full of humor. One of them asked me if I was married. I said no, and he was surprised at first, but then seemed to understand and said something else. With a few repetitions I determined that he was saying that in America we have "temporary marriages." Perhaps he's right. Comes down to semantics I suppose.

Interesting though the encounter was, neither of us could express much beyond this to each other. As if to aid the process, one of them passed me a bidie, and although I don't usually smoke, I accepted: at least it was some sort of exchange. One of them took me on a bike ride through an entirely-muslim quarter where he lived. While we waited for an obstruction, a man, wearing a muslim cap, watched his cellphone ring off to the tune of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."

Upon returning I was content to finish the evening with some chai and tuck away the day, but this was too quiet of an ending for my new group of familiars, so a couple of them insisted I go on another short bike ride with them. Trusting their intents, I hopped on and was transported by some labyrinthine alleyways directly into the heart of a midnight marriage ceremony! It was, for the first time since I have left the States, the first time I can say I was completely out of control of the situation. I was guided through to the center, some music kicked on, and I was vigorously encouraged to dance. I'm not sure where the bride and groom were, but dozens of eyes now looked down the corridor at this blond-haired blue-eyed bad-dancing American, a situation that I must admit felt fun but awkward. They insisted I take a few pictures, which I had no problem with, before I apologetically whisked away back down the alleyways. A flash cameo ending in a hollywood or bollywood movie depending on which end of the alleyway you were facing. The event lasted three minutes, but it felt like centuries.

I've since learned that it's not uncommon for a Western tourist to be escorted for a brief moment into an Indian wedding, should they happen to be nearby. Indeed, now that I consider it, there are several moments like these where a well-meaning Indian will ask simply for a picture alongside me. I wonder, who is the tourist? What do I represent, and what stories will be told, when the picture is developed, and in the hand of the picture-taker's friend?

The events of that night led me to buy a book on Hindi - if I will be here any reasonable length of time I simply must make an effort at learning the major language of India. The alphabet is completely different, but, in grammar and speech it's not as radically different as I would expect - speaking Hindi is actually accomplishable. I'm spending hours learning all that I can, which seems a strange obsession to undertake, parallel as it is with a longing for home. Perhaps I will settle for some sense of it all, a rudimentary communication of a new language. to help decifer a world where everyone lives their own movie - including myself.