Final Words on India

How can I part without a love note to chai tea? The chai, rich with cardamom, is delicious and sweet and buttery good. We purchased some tea in a little clay pot from a Chai-wallah on the street. Unsure of what to do once it was drunk, we were instructed to throw it on the ground into pieces. So we did. A bit guiltily.

And I will miss all the head waddling: how the Indians say yes by shaking their head side to side like a charming little bobble head.

I may have said it before: it’s dirty in India, but I still want to make a fashion statement. What’s a girl to do? How about a hot pink face mask, the chic accessory of choice to filter out unappetizing smells and urban pollution alike.

I never knew that the Swastika symbol was a holy and auspicious Hindu symbol. It is everywhere: on temples, statues, altars, etched onto doorways, and ever present in festivals and ceremonies. One of 108 symbols for the Hindu deity Vishnu representing the sun's rays.

Being stigmatized so heavily in the West, as the symbol of the Nazi party, it induced from me more scorn than curiosity. I was fascinated to dig deeper into the use of the swastika throughout history as a symbol of good luck. If you are interested there is a good Wikipedia article about it. (I'm hoping right now I'm not the only one who didn't know!)

We watched a fair amount of TV in India to escape the heat and stem late-night boredom in our guestroom. Other than the Samsung commercial that is burned on our brains, we learned that most woman are mightily concerned with "hair fall" and most men want a Mont Blanc pen so they have "the power to write their own destiny". Damn advertising, I can’t believe this is one of the memories I leave India with!

Mont Blanc Ad Of Anil And Sonam Kapoor

India is a dizzying, fascinating country that feels like a blur from the inside of a tuk-tuk as easily as it could be the inside of a cuisinart. Flashes of bright rainbow colored saris, henna'd hair, red bindis on the forehead, hands in mudra, sacred cows, and miles of marigold garlands. I feel like I didn’t get deep enough, or entrenched enough in the culture. But at the same time, it was as much as I could bear for my first trip to the sub-continent.

Of India, people say you either love it or hate it, there is nothing in between. I don't think it has to be quite that stark, but it is certain the country will evoke strong emotion and wring out every neuron in your brain. In a single afternoon walk you can run through the gamut of awe, disgust, confusion, rapture and back again.

I'm intrigued enough to return, under different circumstances and different auspices (and lots more money!)  for the list of experiences left undone. I didn't have the nerve to visit (or run away to) an ashram. My turned ankle kept me from 908 asanas on the Ganga. I didn't take a houseboat ride on Dal Lake up north in Kashmir or visit the beauty of Kerala state and eat masala dosa in the south. And most distressing, I didn't see any tigers!

What I wouldn't give to see these furry critters taking a romantic dip, awwwww....

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Gorgefest in Goa

We wanted to go from Varanasi to Madhya Pradesh region, or more specifically to the Bandhavgarh National Park where we could spot some big tigers. Unfortunately, fate wasn’t with us. Being high season and not planning in advance left us few transportation options. We could potentially take a bus to the park but pressing on to Goa sounded like three days in Purgatory, requiring several transfers between buses and trains. Apparently all the trains were booked for the entire end of December from Mumbai (Bombay) to Goa. What to do? We decided to stay in Varanasi a few extra days and take an airplane. Gasp! We cheated.

The flight wasn’t all rainbows and unicorns, consisting of three separate fights spread out over 26 hours. First up was an afternoon flight to Delhi that ran two hours late. Then we flew to Mumbai and had a long stopover before flying on to Goa, arriving the following morning exhausted. Ron also caught a slight cold, making the journey more arduous on him.

We flopped into our sandy bed at Saritas Guest House, too tired to complain that the room hadn’t even been cleaned. We stayed at Bogalo Beach which was nice, but not spectacular. I thought Goa was the French Riviera of India? Maybe because we stayed in the cheaper section of South Goa instead of the ritzier North Goa shoreline.

We enjoyed eating simple grilled food on the deck overlooking the ocean, walking in the white sand, and watching the sunset. Basically relaxing and laying low, like cows on a beach, while Ron recovered from his cold.

On a search for breakfast one morning, we stumbled upon a deserted beachside café. There were some cooks in the kitchen, not intent on actually cooking anything for us hungry customers, but on our way out we scanned the book exchange. Like a chorus of angels heralded from above, there was a golden glow around a large, imposing, brick of a book, hard-backed version of the brand spanking new Lost Symbol. Whether or not it is wise to admit so openly, Ron and I are both huge fans of Dan Brown and have been eagerly awaiting his next installment. I know, we’re lame, but there it is: I said it. I devoured it in twelve hours flat while lazing poolside at the next hotel we stayed at.

My brother was beyond sweet to put us up at a swanky hotel for the week of Christmas and in doing so, won the “Best Christmas Gift Ever” award. As we walked onto the manicured grounds at Heritage Village Club on Arrosim Beach, greeted by fresh flowers, fountains, and a fizzy welcome drink, I heard the Jefferson’s theme song in my mind, “You’re movin on up, movin on up...”

It exceeded all expectation - an unimaginable treat after the slumming we’d been doing. Our room was immaculate and shiny and was cleaned twice a day. I nearly hugged the housekeeper one afternoon, overwhelmed by gratitude for clean sheets and lavender sachets, down comforters and decorative teddy bears, granite countertops and designer faucets. Even our names were personalized on a sign outside. Sort of.

How did we do without these luxuries? Oh shit, how will we be able to travel again after this?!

We spent most of our days sunning and swimming in the large pool. We played countless games of HORSE on the poolside basketball hoop and threw a beach ball around like two kids on summer vacation. Around 11am, the swim-up bar would open and we’d start sucking down screwdrivers by the gallon.

Didn't I tell you it was all-inclusive? Open bar and all-you-can-eat buffet all day and all night. Holy cow, I um, became a cow and must have gained five pounds in seven days. Can you blame me? For once we didn’t have to skimp or count our rupees. Ron could drink ten coffees a day and even have dessert after dinner. It was HEAVEN ON EARTH.

We had our first ever balmy beachside Christmas Day. It was strange at first being so far from home, although the hotel was decorated festively and played Silent Night on repeat in the dining room. There was a big barbeque feast at night with row upon row of savory Indian dishes, seafood delicacies, and a whole roasted pig.

After gorging, we snickered at their cheesy dinner show and sipped champagne until the wee hours. We wish you all a very Merry Christmas from Goa!

Everything about our week was simply splendid until we checked out and they presented us with the bill, upon which I nearly fainted. Apparently there was some debacle at AMEX and the bill was not charged to my brother’s card. We had an hour before leaving for the airport and after a frenzy of phone calls, harsh words, and tears, we settled the bill and made it just in time.

All good things must come to an end, but there are many more adventures that await us. Next stop: Thailand!

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Jaded in the City

One of the downsides of this trip is having to deal with touts, drug dealers, and other unsavory sorts on a daily basis. We have been forced to learn the ins and outs and always remain vigilant. Some will catch you off guard. Saunter up to you in a business suit and nonchalantly whisper, “ You want marijuana? …hashish? …mdma? ….cocaine? …brown sugar? …you-name-it, what do you like?“ They are well diversified in product with a virtual drugstore beneath their tailor-made coat. The perfect response to this question is: “I don’t do drugs” which will thankfully end the conversation. A drug dealer knows not what to do when faced with someone who does not partake : no ailment to relieve, nor thrill to be had.

Even if we did want drugs, there are way too many reports of tourists being entrapped by police in cahoots with the dealers and, more importantly, I promised my Dad at least a hundred times that I wouldn't end up in a Thai prison. Needless to say, we were very good boys and girls.

To the rickshaws and taxi drivers pressuring us for a ride, we respond: “I need some exercise“. To the silk salesman and “come see my shop” guys we save them face and promise to stop by later.

Unfortunately there is no good response to the absolute most frequent bombardment which occurs maybe fifty to sixty times a day: “Hey! What’s your name? Where are you from?” You can’t play dumb, obviously we are Western, and look like Americans or Canadians or Brits. You can’t lie, how would that help. And you can’t be silent. because that will beg the question again and again and again. If anyone has a good way to defuse this fake conversation starter please let me know.

Sometimes it can be so maddening. With every new unsolicited interaction it builds and bubbles and simmers until I want to scream at the top of my lungs:

NO WE DON’T WANT ANY DRUGS OR SEXY SEXY ALL NIGHT OR TO STAY IN YOUR SHITTY GUESTHOUSE AND UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES DO WE WANT TO GET IN YOUR FUCKING TUK-TUK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Then maybe, just maybe, we can keep walking and save everyone the time and hassle. Alright, so I’ve become a tad jaded and I assume that anyone who talks to us wants something. This has reached such epic proportions that sometimes I blurt, “No thank you!” before they even get a word out of their mouth. As we walked to dinner one night, I verbally karate chopped a guy who was merely pointing out some monkeys above us playing on the electrical lines. Okay, so not everyone wants our rupee, it just appears that way.

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The Holy Ganga of Varanasi

Varanasi, the holiest of holy cities, has as many visually-charged epithets as one would expect. It is the city of death and pilgrims; the city of learning and burning. All life (and inevitably death) revolves around the Ganges River, also known, simply, as Ganga. There is more folklore flora and religious fauna to fill up five blogs, so please excuse me if I heavily abbreviate.

One morning we got up before dawn to take a boat trip up and down the river. We met Aso, a bearded boatman with a checkerboard boat, who expounded trivia and colorful tidbits as he rowed. He recalled the great monsoon of 1978 that flooded the Ganges to its highest recorded levels, where water surged past the highest ghat steps and flowed freely into the streets of the Old City.

We meandered down the river in the early morning hours; the sky softened into a wispy dawn. Birds scattered and swarmed in play.

There were sacred cows with wild eyes...



...and endearing goats wearing shirts to stay warm...


...and sadhus, ascetics whitewashed in ash, otherworldly yet not at all out of place on the steep ghat steps.

We passed dozens of ghats, each with a different purpose, named for worship of a different god, and frequented by a different sect. We passed Jain Ghat, a Buddhist temple; Janki Ghat for Rama’s wife; Nishadraj Ghat, the Boatmens ghat; Niranjani Gghat, a sadhu ashram; Kedar Ghat, a small Shiva temple; Digpatya Ghat, dedicated to Hare Krishna; Asi Ghat, the first of the holy ghats; and Dasasanwedi, the main ghat, to name only a few.

A trip here would be for incomplete without visiting the infamous burning pyres at the rivers edge. There are two: Harish Chandra, the small burning ghat and Manikarnika, the large burning ghat. Saffron wrapped bodies are strewn with marigolds and placed respectfully on the pyre to burn for two to three hours. Some people can’t be burned on the pyres and are given up to the river directly, these include: lepers, children, pregnant women, brahmins, and those poisoned by king cobras. Apparently it not uncommon to see floating corpses in the river, although thankfully we were spared this disturbing sight.

At the large ghat, the burning goes on 24 hours a day producing up to 200 cremations. An average pyre costs 3000 rupees ($60) but can vary in price depending on the quantity and qualify of wood used and the priests services rendered. The eldest son takes a place of prominence in the funeral ritual, releasing the final bits of bone and ash into the river where they sometimes scavenge the remains and pick out pieces of jewelry and gold fillings.

It is an honor to be burned on the pyres by the Ganges river and many travel vast distances to await their final liberation, what Hindu’s call the attainment of moksha. Death is not a quiet, somber event but a necessary, if not celebrated, evolution. One leaves the particular to join the universal; and rejoin the river of history like a drop of rain.

The local people bathe, brush their teeth, and wash their clothes in the holy waters. As we pass men and women beating their laundry vigorously on the ghat steps, Aso astutely called it the “Ganga Washing Machine”.


It might be a shocking enough use of the foul brown river water - with all the dead bodies, ashes, and human waste flowing in it - but even more disturbing is when the locals scoop up in their hands and drink it!! Although they purport these to be holy waters with true medicinal value, it is filthy beyond imagination. Do they know that the amount of ecoli bacteria and fecal coliform are 3,000 times worse than the safe level determined by the World Health Organization? Yuck.

We hired Aso another night for a boat trip to see the Ganga puja or Brahmin ceremony. Every evening at 6pm at the Prayag ghat, five Brahmin offer aarti or prayer, through circling lamps and incense, singing, drumming and chanting.

We were accompanied by Aso’s three daughters who were eager to sell us their handmade wares and fledgling services. The oldest was so persistent, I relented and had my first henna, a loopy twisting design on the back of my hand, painted on by the faintest candlelight. Admittedly, a rocking, dark boat may not have been the wisest choice for semi-permanent body art; it was sloppy and amateurish, but the girl was proud and so was I.

Hundreds of diyas floated on the river like twinkling stars in the inky sky. A prayer in each one, and in each heart.

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Newsflash: Sad Dog Incites Twisted Ankle

One morning, we were coming back through the gate into the hotel grounds and I noticed the saddest dog chained up and whimpering in the corner. Sometimes its appalling how poorly the animals are treated here, and ironic, in a land of vegetarians. Apparently, this lifestyle has more to do with dietary restriction and little to do with being humane towards animals.

Anyways, I was talking and looking back over my left shoulder at sad pooch and twisted my ankle on a patch of slanted grass by the walkway. More like I mangled my ankle. I think I came down on the left side of my foot so hard that I heard bones crunch. I fell down on the grass in a half summersault roll, grabbing my ankle in pain, seriously thinking I broke it. Ron hovered over me, freaking out, the look of panic in his eyes mirroring my own. I immediately flashed to the scary Indian hospital on the corner, crutches, a cast, and our trip ending in the blink of an eye.

Ron got the manager over, he took one look at me and said I was fine. Through teary eyes, I told him I heard a crunch, and he replied that if I broke a bone we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Point taken. He sprayed my ankle and foot with a numbing solution and in a few minutes I was able to get up and limp away.

I felt like I dodged a bullet, although I had to stay off my foot for a couple days, soaking it in a hot bucket of salty water and applying moove, a local pain ointment. It was sore in that tender place under the arch of my foot for almost three weeks afterwards. But we pressed on…and I regret to report, I didn’t liberate the sad, mangy dog in the corner; he’s still chained to that very spot.

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The India-Nepali Border Crossing

We were embarking on an epic and exhausting adventure by traveling overland from Kathmandu to Varanasi. The high level plan was to take a bus to Bhairawa, walk across the India-Nepali border to Saunali, take another bus to Gorakpur, and a train the last leg to Varanasi. Total travel time from door to door was estimated at twenty hours. The mere idea of this can make you queasy, but we pressed on. We are not hardcore vagabonds that relish in the least comfortable conditions, yet we similarly find ourselves with far more time on our hands than money in our pockets. We would gladly book the two hour flight on Jetstar like all the other sane people out there, but the adventure awaits...

We decided to enlist Touch Paradise to book the major legs of the trip, hoping to both give our friends some business and ourselves a break from logistical planning. I’m sad to say this didn’t make it any easier, cheaper, or more streamlined. Below is what we learned on the road, and there is but one way you learn on the road: the hard way.

The first important thing to know when you are traveling is where you are going. Duh. While this should be obvious there are at least a hundred cases where the local inhabitants call their city by several names or variations thereof. Either they are slow to adopt the new name out of habit or principle; or they have disdain for the anglicized version; who knows, whatever the case, it will be listed differently on your map, guidebook, tour brochure, train station board, and you will get a history lesson free of charge from the guy on the corner you beg for some semblance of clarity. This leads to a lot of unnecessary confusion and traveler heartache (like heartburn only it last much longer, sometimes your entire life) Let‘s take Varanasi: No one calls it Varanasi but you. It was once upon a time the ancient city of Kasi, then Varanasi, then anglicized to Benares or Banares which is still widely used, then back to Varanasi. This is but one example, there are millions of Istanbul’s which were Constantinople’s.

My advice for budget travelers is to book the train leg ahead but arrange the bus and jeep portions as you go. Expect to pay a maximum of 600 NPR ($8) from Kathmandu to Saunali which doesn’t include 150 NPR for rickshaw to the border. That’s right, the bus will stop a mile or so from the border, leaving you standing and scratching your head with all of your luggage.

The border is complete and utter chaos. There are cars, trucks, rickshaws, motorbikes, bicycles, cows, pigs, and people all jammed into every square inch of road, facing off against each other in irresolvable gridlock. There is just nowhere to go: not back, not forward, not sideways. There are no sidewalks, and as a pedestrian, god help you, you have to traverse this insanity through dumb luck and some well-timed shoves. Let’s just say if you looked up the word ‘clusterfuck’ in the dictionary you would see a picture of the India-Nepali border crossing.

On a good night, if you are walking across the border with a valid passport and the appropriate visas, then you can get through the border checkpoint in 1 hour. We planned on two hours just to be safe. I was grouchy, flustered, and sweating by the time we reached the Indian checkpoint and realized that I had left my passport on the Nepali side. Fuck. Yes, that is two expletives in two paragraphs, and I’m seriously making an effort to restrain myself. All in all, it was a ten expletive day. Ron ran back through the gauntlet of obstacles in what he described was like OJ Simpson in the 70’s Hertz commercial, where instead of leaping over rows of departure lounge seats it was carts of chickens. "Go Critter Go!"

To get to Gorakpur train station the cheapest is the bus but can take 3-4 hours depending on stops. The jeep can take as little as 2 hours, so if you are short on time don’t risk missing your train connection by taking the bus. A jeep costs the locals only 100 INR ($2) but they will ask you to pay anywhere from 150-200 INR ($3-4), which you can try to negotiate unless of course it is nearing 6:30pm and the last jeep is leaving and you should be happy with any seat you get. This is what happened to us. We took the last two seats in the last jeep, which meant we sat in the trunk on fold down seats with several other people. We were cramped and hunched over, our interlaced knees smashed into each other.

A helper boy of about 14 clung to the back bumper of the jeep as we tore through the night on the bumpy roads. I was worried for his safety, and as he wore a thin shirt, for his stamina against the chill. He must have been reading my thoughts and opened the trunk - with the jeep careening at top speed - and climbed in on top of us, the unsuspecting passengers. This made the uncomfortable ride, several magnitudes worse. He did offer us a cookie. But when we asked for a reduced fare - only slightly jokingly - he just laughed and laughed.

We arrived at the train station: an enormous, unimpressive concrete structure amidst a crowd of heaving, smelly people. We had not eaten a substantial meal all day and our prospects were low. Either we could brave the food shacks outside the train station or take our chances on what lay within. Neither sounded appealing. We weaved our way inside and found a snack bar that offered several types of savory pastries and pies. We bought six for under two dollars and found a bench to devour them. Then we waited - generously sprinkled from head to toe with flaky crumbs - for our train.

The train prices vary depending on class. Third class travel is the cheapest at 150 INR ($3) for a pre-booked ticket, and isn’t bad if you have a hardy constitution and are prepared with warm clothes, insect repellent, water, and earplugs. Sadly, we had none of these items at the ready. There were no provided blankets and the windows were stuck open letting in sub zero freezing temperatures and big fat mosquitoes by the dozen. Apparently not an incongruous happening. It was so cold Ron dug his wool socks out of his backpack to wear on his hands. I wasn’t so lucky. I tossed and turned and questioned my travel motives: what am I doing this for?

We arrived at 5am in the morning without a room reservation. Of course, our rickshaw driver didn’t want to take us to a riverside guest house of our choosing but finally he relented. He couldn’t get us very close so I had to follow him through the twisting and turning alleys while Ron stayed behind with our luggage. The guest house was completely dark when the rickshaw driver banged on the metal door, stirring a clerk inside. A few excited words were exchanged in Hindi and guess what? They were booked. Big surprise, he had suggestions for where to stay, but two flop houses later, we managed to get a decent hotel suggestion out of him and checked in to the Singh Guesthouse.

Twenty four hours after we left Kathmandu we slithered into our hard platform bed and shivered under the shabby covers. Why is it so cold? Whatever happened to the whole fabled notion of the Indian summer?

Yes, I’m a bit cranky,...but can you blame me?

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Back to Delhi

On the last leg of what they call the Golden Triangle (traveling from Delhi-Jaipur-Agra back to Delhi), the train ride was a total fiasco. We had a hard time reading the ticket and asked for help determining the track number. A nice fellow with heavily accented English and a leathery face, told us the train would be leaving in 15 minutes on track 4. Moments later, we arrived at the track and saw a train for New Delhi about to depart. Asking a boy in uniform if this was indeed our train and car, which said HL1 instead of H1. He directed us inside and to a compartment that, again, didn’t quite match up to our ticket. The train took off and I thought the worse thing that could happen was we would have to move to our correct car. Instead, we were on the wrong train altogether!

The conductor was very unhappy with us. Basically saying we had to get off the next stop or pay a fortune to cover a penalty charge and then buy a new ticket for this train. But it’s the same class car going to the same destination, surely we shouldn’t have to buy a new ticket?! The next “stop”, if you can even call it that seeing as it didn’t have a platform or corresponding town built up around it, came and went. The conductor came back and lectured us about an additional fine now because we couldn‘t follow instructions. I felt about 8 years old. How were we to know that our express train would even stop at that stop, it looked like a ghost town. Finally, he begrudgingly relented into letting us stay until Mathura (birthplace of Lord Krishna), a large train hub.

We were booted off the train to wait for our train that was supposedly 20 minutes behind us. I watched the shoddy electronic overhead board, it’s lite n brite bulbs flickering on and off, struggling to illuminate the train schedule, and was informed it would be late by 45 minutes. An hour and half later, I went back and our train no longer was displayed on the board! What happened?! The train apparently came and went and we didn’t get on it. We watched the incoming trains like a hawk, and even had two extra pairs of eyes as two British girls also mistakenly boarded the wrong train (see, we’re not the only losers!). We may have been a little distracted by the sheer madness of the crowds boarding the 3rd class cars. How enteriaining it was to see if someone else could, in fact, muscle their way onto vastly overcrowded cars.

We went from office to office in the train station trying to plead our case and explain our predicament. Some told us to go buy a new ticket. Others just stared mouth slightly agape with no reply at all (my favorite). We found one kind soul that explained the train probably came on the track behind us. Apparently track 2 means track 2 or track 3. A hard lesson learned in the nuances of the Indian train system. After some serious wheeling and dealing with the many official looking officials, he helped us get the all-important stamp on our ticket that allowed us to board any train heading to Delhi. So in the end, we just needed a stupid stamp.

We boarded the next train and shared a car with a nice older couple originally from India not living in the UK, that were quite the pair. We munched on samosas, sipped chai tea, and watched their well rehearsed joint story-telling in awe, as they finished each others sentences and snorted in playful contempt at each others idiosyncrasies that they must have been enduring for half a century. The train was running late (of course) and kept getting further and further behind. Another 9 hour train ride that should have been only 5. I’m beginning to realize that doubling our expected travel time is the rule, and arriving on time is the rare (and unexperienced) exception. The black swan of extended world travel.

Finally to Delhi, we holed up at Welcome Palace Hotel where we rented a shabby but wonderful suite with wireless internet connection and separate living room decorated in garish gold and aqua polyester fabric. We ordered room service, worked on the blog, and uploaded photos for two days. Trying desperately to get (and feel) a little organized before heading off to Nepal.

The hotel was in the Karol Bagh area of Delhi which is much easier to handle than the main bazaar. Although, we ventured out once to find the McDonalds (yes, I know, its cheating) and promptly got lost and turned around. We must have had the map upside down because when we finally asked for directions we were so far away we caved in and took a rickshaw. Through the soot and chaos, I saw the welcoming beacon of the golden arches, like a giant neon yellow dove in flight, heralding good chow ahead. Being in a Hindu nation, they didn’t serve any beef or pork products. That is no Big Macs or McRibs or slightly unHappy Meals.

I have to say that fries without the secret ingredient of beef extract was not as satisfying alongside my McChicken. I really think it adds to the intoxicating smell and ensuing full-body craving for a supersize portion. Like the “natural flavoring” is really a little bit of Detroit crack. It was good nonetheless, especially to have something different. We always thought we would never get tired of Indian food because we love it so much, but 3 meals a day for 3 weeks and I could eat a bucket full of chicken nuggets, no problem. Pass the honey mustard, please. I’ll make a bib from my napkin.

Me and my "other" Ron....shhhhhhhhhhhh.

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The Taj Mahal

We finally left Jaipur after 8 nights on another early morning train bound for Agra, the city of the magnificent Taj Mahal. And was it magnificent! The first night we opted to see it at sunset from across the Yamuna River. Instead of paying to view it from the park at Mehtab Bagh, we followed a dirt path down by the riverbed to take in the view. Because of the far distance from the Taj Mahal, the actual sunset stole the show.

The river was quite a bit lower than expected, but we saw some religious ceremonies taking place but weren’t allowed to get very close to the action. It did involve more fireworks and a mélange of colorful dresses reflecting off the river.

The rickshaw ride back to our hotel in the dusk and traffic was nail biting, as usual. Check out this cool guy we almost sideswiped.

We stayed at Maya Hotel, which wins our unofficial travel award for best room upkeep, best value and best food in India. With a friendly owner to boot! For 900 rupees ($19) a night, it may have tottered past the shoestring budget category but it was so clean and well cared for. Ron was in heaven with the nice lacquered paint jobs and finish details. I loved the big marble bed and overall room design felt so peacefully calm. I wished we stay longer.

The next morning we rose early again. See, this travel business is not all sleeping, lounging around, and goofing off. We are on a mission to see the world, so we must get up early, with the cackling birds and the mooing cows (and don't forget, the scampering cockroaches when you flick on the light). You must be up well before the crowds and the tour buses arrive. Of course, then we can run back to the hotel and take long naps and sip spiced chai tea for the rest of the afternoon. Mmmmm, that sounds good right now! Be back in a minute.... Okay. We got to the Taj (we are on a first name basis now) by 6am but the line was already a football field in length. So much for being early birds!

There were separate entrance lines for men and women. For once, this segregation gave me a good deal, I got a much shorter line. But then I saw a sign telling us we had to put our electronics in a locker and ended up rushing off to lock up our illegal items - ipods, camera chargers, and even my solar calculator. God forbid, I calculate the square root of 43 in the shadow of the Taj - an unholy, forbidden act.

To get in the festive spirit, I wore the salwar kameez again from Diwali. It was so comfy, like wearing pajamas, I really could wear it everyday but it is a little tight and bursting at the seams in places. With some quick stitching, I may get two more wearings out of it.

The Taj Mahal was started in 1631 and took 2000 craftsmen 22 years to complete. It was built as the tomb for Mumtaj Mahal, the wife of Emperor Shahjahan, who died during the birth of their 14th child. They were very busy. The emperor was so heartbroken by her death, he built her the most beautiful resting place in the world (and arguably still is) as a tribute to his great love. How's that for romantic?! Ron may think Valentine's day is a pressure cooker now, but my standards have just tripled.

There are a number of fascinating architectural features - it is identical in every detail from each of the four sides. And optical illusions - the quaranic inscriptions on the façade of the entrances increase ever so slightly in height, so to the viewer at ground level it appears totally uniform.

It really is a dazzling vision in gleaming white marble, and one of the few wonders that isn’t the slightest disappointing once you finally see it. We gladly parted with the 750 rupee ($16) entrance fee. One thing though, I was surprised at how much smaller the inside feels in comparison to the grand visage of the exterior. Perhaps another crafty illusion from the architects. As is this picture (flipped upside down) off one of the reflection pools, that Ron is quite pleased with, and tells me so over and over convincing me of its “blog worthiness”. I have to admit it is a pretty darn visually interesting shot, but these are the little things we debate excitedly about over our nightly curry....

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Passing Around a Bad Cold

After the high of Diwali, I awoke the next day feeling horrible with a bad sore throat. It was to be the worst cold I’ve had in years, knocking me out flat for nearly five days, leaving me with a lingering runny nose and cough for two more weeks.

We would watch a dozen movies on HBO (along with a thousand recurring commercials). Somehow they get away with playing commercials on movie channels here and unapologetically even play the same one multiple times in a row. I can now recite the entire Samsung Corby commercial by heart, “I’m with her…she’s with him…he’s with her…they’re all with me…” sung with a lame reverb. When the commercial came on, you could see Ron flying through the air in a double twisting tuck roll onto the bed, tumbling off with the remote in his right hand, thumb pressed firmly to the mute button before the second beat sounded. Apparently bad music can make musicians defy gravity in crazy feats of acrobatics when they are provoked.

We ordered tons of room service. And Mangu, the front desk guy we befriended, was so concerned he called us and then stopped by every day to see if I was okay. It was a sweet thought (starting to verge on stalkerish) but I felt like death warmed over so I would hide in the bathroom or feign sleep. This probably added to the mystery and extent of my illness. After the third day, Ron started to feel ill too. Though not as severe, we layed low for several more days and avoided the streets as best we could.

Once we were both a little better and certifiably stir crazy, we went to an indoor store, called Big Bazaar. Like an Indian Target, we spent hours wandering and browsing as you find yourself doing in places like that. Telling yourself you really need xyz even though it never crossed your mind once until just that second. We stocked up on some necessary supplies: underwear, sunscreen, deodorant and wholly unnecessary ones: pringles, lipstick (and when am I going to where this?), a 6 pack of handkerchiefs (y’know one for each of the six of us).

All the food in India is categorized and advertised as Veg or Non Veg. It’s a moral decision you are forced to make on a daily basis. Are you sure you can have a clear conscience eating meat with delicious, wholesome vegetarian food readily available on every street corner? Do you really want to be known as an evil Non Veg person? You betcha.

With an uninterrupted week of various veg curries from the hotel restaurant we took the walk of shame with our heads held high. We got a recommendation for a restaurant (or open flame on the roadside) called Talk of the Town which served the best tandoori we’ve ever had in our lives. Oh my god! So good and so spicy the red sauce burnt your fingers. Your lips smacking wildly, aflame in a fury of tender chicken goodness. Happily amongst the patrons spilling out on the street, screaming "Viva Non Veg!"

Rewinding the time one hour, we were walking on the side of a busy street on our way to the heavenly tandoori. I see a guy on a motorcycle approaching. He veers across three lanes of traffic and slows down right in front of me. Is he pulling over? I wonder, as he comes closer. I think he may run into me or fall over on me. Is he having a mechanical issue? And then it happens. He reaches out and grabs my left breast, smirks, and then speeds off. I was victim to my very first drive-by boobie grab. It happened so fast, and I was taken so off guard, I didn’t have time to react. But next time, I’ll be ready to deck the guy and steal his bike. I could break one of these skinny Indian guys in half. Go ahead, make my day,….punk.

Apparently grabbing is not all that uncommon here. Now I know why it was a such an important victory in the news recently - women jubilantly rejoicing to finally have a "female only" express train in Mumbai. If this could happen to me openly on a public street, I can't imagine what goes unchecked aboard the crowded trains.

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Happy Diwali!

Today is Diwali, the biggest Hindu festival of the year. Diwali is like our Christmas, New Years, and the 4th of July all rolled into one. In Hinduism, Diwali marks the return of Lord Raama to his kingdom after 14 years and defeat of the Demon King. Often called the festival of lights, the streets and homes are lit up with burning candles and lamps. It is the time to clean the house to welcome and worship Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth and prosperity. There is a generous spirit, affectionate visits between friends and family, and the exchanging of small gifts.

Amit picked us up and we went to Amber Fort, an impressive fortress with walls climbing the hills like the great wall of china (or so I think since I‘ve never been to china…yet). We hoped to ride an elephant but the handlers, smartly, took the day off to celebrate. Instead we walked around and took in the views. I saw a taxi driver yell at a monkey and throw water on him. Disgusted, I followed the monkey to see what all the fuss was about and found out they are cheeky little devils that will snatch anything they can get their paws on. There was a tree-full of them (better than a barrelful) leaping onto the walls, finding a victim to scare and steal their chiapati before making an acrobatic escape. Amit and I got a little too comfortable sitting on the wall, blocking their escape route that one nearly leapt off our backs.

On the way back we saw the Jal Mahal Palace. It was so beautiful reflecting off the water. I always wanted to live by a lake, but to live on a lake is a level of seclusion Ron and I would both love right about now, being two home-bodies forced out into the world for 5 months and counting. Ah, the nightly row back to our water palace. That sounds mighty good.

Now was time to get ready for the evening festivities. The moment I dreaded. After the dress disaster, I decided to buy some pink sequined shoes to wear with a dress I bought in Africa. Ron looked smashing in his white punjabi suit. Everyone complimented him, trying not to comment on what I was wearing, like they were disappointed I didn‘t even make an effort. I was dying inside.

I could see the same look in the eyes of Amit’s family when we arrived. They had surely all heard the story by now. Within minutes of arriving, I was led into the front room where auntie, mother, and sister dressed me in a burgundy salwar kameez. All my embarrassment dissolved in their knowing gazes as they transformed me silently into an Indian queen. You don’t need language to communicate what was happening, what they were so generously doing for me. Taking jewelry off themselves to place on me. Carefully applying makeup. The final touch was a dot on my third eye. It was a Cinderella moment, and infinitely superior than the best fitting tailor-made sari. Those horrible tailors did me an immense favor, I thought and smiled, surrounded by three angels. They smiled back, approvingly, at their job well done and showed me off to the rest of the house with pride.

Sister set up the altar to Ganesha and Lakshmi. and made a design in colored sand called rangoli. The ritual was fascinating with offerings of rice, perfume, and saffron paste. Then hand rolled cotten wicks were placed in terracotta bowls filled with ghee and lit up all around. We were included in the puja like any other member of the family. Circling the incense in front of the altar. Ringing a bell along with the chanting. Receiving vermillion on our foreheads and colored string on our wrists (left for women, right for men). It was a deeply touching ceremony to be so intimately allowed to see and experience.

Fireworks were lit every night for the days and weeks leading up to the crescendo of Diwali that echoed for hours with bursts of light in red, orange, and pink. At first, it was like living out a little kids fantasy - lighting giant rockets you can buy for twenty five cents that are twenty five times better than anything in Mexico. You can literally make your own KABOOM! in your backyard, and on this night a billion Indians do just that. The spent casings filling up the streets like overstuffed sofa stuffing. After a few hours of ear shattering explosions inches away from cherry bombs thrown by neighboring kids, I was ready to retreat to the sanctuary of the house. It was a wild and dangerous night to be out - near misses, close calls, cars driving too fast down streets over lit fuses exploding like hand grenades. I’m just not used to unregulated activities that can cause permanent damage, my ears still ringing the next day.

We ate dinner on the kitchen floor at half past midnight. A delicious thali made by Mom with lentils, spicy aloo, curd, soup, and piping hot chiapati. I was so hungry I only noticed after a few minutes that I was the only female eating with all the men. I guess as a guest this was the protocol but the rest of the women ate later. This left ample opportunity for Mom to lord over us and lavish as much food as possible onto our plates and into our bellies. I enjoyed sitting lotus style on the floor but Ron was cramped up and looked pained sitting on his knees.

The whole experience spending Diwali in the warmth of an Indian home was exceedingly special and tops the list as one of our best memories of the trip.

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The Pink City

The three nights in Delhi went by in a blur and we were already off to the train station, headed to Jaipur. Up at 4:45am, as usual on travel days, we had mostly packed the night before, everything snug in its usual place, a well practiced ritual by now. We checked out and were on the dark, quiet streets. This is the time to see India, in the early morning its wonderfully quiet. We got to the New Delhi Railway Station thirty minutes before the train, or thirty minutes too early. It seems everyone arrives only moments before departure. Our “chair class” car, which is second class was air conditioned and they weren’t kidding. It was meat-locker-cold, us shivering in our boots trying to remember how deep in our bag we packed our fleeces.

It must have been the nicest travel day we’ve had in months. The train was clean, the chairs were roomy and comfortable and they served us a large breakfast with multiple cups of tea. How fabulous! This train certainly rivaled European trains, but it was an exception not the rule. There were plenty of the trains you’ve heard about with hundreds of people piled in a car.

We passed slum after slum producing more awful smells - hundreds squatting by the railroad tracks, with no modicum of secrecy. It was morning business as usual. It looked like a war-zone but there had been no war except man against man in an overpopulated and poverty stricken nation. I used to hear a lot about the contrasts of the rich and poor in India, but I have yet to see anyone I would consider well off.

Amit and his dad, Raju, bless their hearts, picked us up from the train station. It was the first time in months we felt like someone was waiting to see us - like family. Raju owns a small private car company. A driver for over twenty five years, he embodies the principle that you have to be a professional to drive here. Amateurs would cause a ten rickshaw pile-up in the blink of an eye. The ebb and flow of traffic reminded me of fish in the sea. One car moves and every other car adjusts minutely. Two lanes of traffic balloon into four and then recede back as oncoming traffic picks up and everyone interprets the nuances and meaning of the incessant honking. It’s pretty amazing to watch, even though you are grabbing onto your seat in a death grip and praying to your god(s). It was a wonder we never really saw any traffic accidents, but I guess you never see yellowfin tuna collide into one another either, that would be silly.

We visited Amit’s family home for some drinks and sweet snacks. They live in a small two story house on a quiet residential street. Living areas doubled as bedrooms, as all the family was visiting for Diwali. The sons and daughters, aunts, uncles, and cousins. We were offered to stay as well, but would probably have been given the parents bedroom, knowing how highly they treat guests. We didn’t want to impose too much, and stayed at the nearby Hotel Galaxy where we got a room for 900 rupee($18) a night.

With the luxury of a private car and driver compliments of Amit, we explored Jaipur, what they call the Pink City. The old town is surrounded by magnificent high walls - white squiggly designs on a salamander pink background. Later that day we also visited the City Palace, where the royal family or Maharaja of Jaipur once lived. It was free for Amit and his friend Sandeep because they are Indian nationals, and superb negotiators, but Ron and I paid 600 rupees each for a one hour whirlwind tour. We especially enjoyed the vast collection of ancient weaponry but weren‘t allowed to take photos. One looked like a knife, gun, cigarette lighter, and nail clipper, all rolled in to one handy dandy metal MacGyver tool. There were also some fantastic and intricately detailed architecture and doorways in Rajput style.

And, of course, the obligatory guys running around in turbans...

We wanted to get traditional dress to wear for Diwali so we stopped at a store recommended by Raju called Satguru’s. I was expecting to try on a number of pre-made salwar kameez but instead found myself in a tailor shop with bolts of fabric being pulled out right and left. Do you like this, madam? Or maybe this? Or maybe this? I found myself amidst a frenzy of technocolored silk and chiffon. I asked about a red sequined sari and cringed at the 15000 rupee price tag (and also a bit at the idea of a midriff baring crop top). It was all a little overwhelming and after some time, and some complimentary drinks, I was definitely in one of those awkward social situa tions. I didn’t want to spend $200 but I didn’t want to upset Amit, and I certainly didn’t want to offend his Dad who specially set up our shopping experience. What’s a girl to do?

Finally I settled on something I thought would suit my style and budget more appropriately - a punjabi suit with pink paisley brocade top and pea green pants. I had a hard time picturing if it would look good on me, and wished I could try on a few styles instead of pointing to Indian models in a magazine. Not the best representation when you are several inches taller and several times curvier. An ancient tailor measured me, too bashful to get the most accurate of measurements, but I still held out hope. Especially after forking over $130 which was $120 more than I wanted to spend.

They delivered it to the hotel, as promised, later that night. When I tried it on, it was a complete disaster from top to bottom, front to back. The fabric of the top was stiff and boxy, three times too large, like I was wearing a giant pink garbage sack. The pants were too loose and too short, adding to the overall frumpiness and unattractiveness of the vision before me in the mirror. I was so horrified, and in tears, that I would not even allow a photograph. Not even for prosperity. Not even for you, dear readers. I never want to see that outfit again as long as I live.

Now what will I wear for Diwali? How do I tell Amit? And what will Dad think when I show up in non-traditional dress on their biggest festival of the year?

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