Savage

Some movies we watch to make us feel better, to feel joy, fear, hope. Some movies we just watch to make us feel. The Savages, written and directed by Tamara Jenkins, does just that.

Adult siblings Wendy (Laura Linney) and Jon (Philip Seymour Hoffman) find themselves faced with the difficult task of caring for their estranged and aging father.

The last thing the two Savage siblings ever wanted to do was look back at their difficult family history. Having wriggled their way out from beneath their father’s domineering thumb, they are now firmly cocooned in their own complicated lives. Wendy is a struggling East Village playwright, AKA a temp who spends her days applying for grants, stealing office supplies and dating her very married neighbor. Jon is a neurotic college professor writing books on obscure subjects in Buffalo.

Then comes the call that informs them that the father they have long feared and avoided, Lenny Savage (Philip Bosco), is slowly being consumed by dementia and they are the only ones that can help. Now, as they put their already arrested lives on hold, Wendy and Jon are forced to live together under one roof for the first time since childhood, rediscovering the eccentricities that drove each other crazy. Faced with complete upheaval and battling over how to handle their father’s final days, they are confronted with what adulthood, family and, most surprisingly, each other are really about.

With lovably flawed characters, the film relied heavily upon powerful performances by an incomparable cast and strong writing to weave a dryly realistic story of family, love and mortality.

It made me cry, a little. Laugh, a lot. More than anything else, though, it made me think. It made me feel.


Tag: Movies

Hey Kristin: Breaux Bridge awaits!

By NOLA Celeste

Next week Kristin will experience a different New Orleans and a different French Quarter. The bouncers who attempt to usher you into neon-lit daiquiri shops are slightly more animated now that they are no longer working in 100% humidity. Tiny lights dangle off of the balconies of 19th Century buildings. M’sER is serving Hot Buttered Rum again. The Goths who usually slouch on the Mississippi River levee where I walk my dog have disappeared to seek shelter from the (relative) cold. Strippers huddle in doorways, garish fur coats covering their miniscule outfits.

This trip, however, Joe and I plan to bring Kristin to Breaux Bridge, our post-Katrina refuge that has morphed into a weekend home. We, along with our former downstairs tenant Max, moved into the house a week after Katrina. The thought of living in the “Anywhere USA plus purple and gold Mike the Tiger vomit-covered suburban nightmare” that is Baton Rouge made me want to stab myself in the eye. So we found a place in the country, about 45 minutes from Baton Rouge. Staying there once a week cuts 30 minutes off of my normal NOLA to BR commute.

There is nothing physically remarkable about our Breaux Bridge house – a one-story 1980s green weatherboard building with an attached carport. On the right it is flanked by a sugar cane field. On the left it is flanked by a horse pasture. Our neighbors live in a trailer surrounded by rusted-out cars on blocks and about 15 chickens.

The house is decorated in a style I like to call “Katrina Eclectic.” In an outpouring of Midwestern generosity, attics, closets and garages were emptied of excess stuff by Joe’s parents, friends and neighbors as we waited out the storm in Ohio. We first moved into the house with only an ice chest-sized 1980s wood paneled microwave, two air mattresses, some Christmas plates and a random assortment of beach towels. Some of Joe’s clients in Lafayette (about 15 minutes west) donated various pieces of furniture. Adorning the living room walls are posters from various festivals, an Etch-a-sketch style magnetic message board and a stock certificate documenting my membership in the Henderson-Nina Water System Rural Cooperative. By the picture window is a table I have dubbed the Pantheistic Shrine. The altar cloth is a green paisley sheet that I found in the closet. Covering the table are two gigantic brass candleholders (one of which is the perch for a tiny red Buddha statue), a tiki-type wood carving, an embroidered Christmas manger scene, a lemon meringue-scented candle, an 8x10” picture of Max’s mom from the 1970s (We had to divorce Max as a friend when he began to love certain controlled substances more than he liked us. Why we still have this picture is a topic for a sad future post.) and a partially-filled revolving 8-Track cassette tape holder.

Each object has a story that will not be told here.

Also in Breaux Bridge is Ramona, our Katrina cat. Ramona was dumped on our other pre-Katrina downstairs tenant by an ex-girlfriend who was moving to New York. Prior to Katrina, Ramona was the world’s worst cat. She would hiss at you for no reason, bite you when you tried to pet her and defecate all over the house. The tenant left food and water for her when he evacuated, thinking he would be back in three days. Instead, Ramona was trapped inside a flooded house for almost three weeks. Joe dreaded the thought of finding dead Ramona when he snuck back into the city in a counterfeit “State Farm Recovery Team” golf shirt. He was surprised when he heard a small “Meow?” after busting down the water-swollen door to the former tenant’s apartment. An emaciated Ramona jumped into his arms and began purring. She is now a wonderful, snuggly cat. I think she likes the freedom of living in the country. She even flips over and lets me rub her belly. Sometimes she sits on my chest and “pets me” with an outstretched paw.

Breaux Bridge has had restorative properties for Ramona. It has made her a pet again.

I think a “vacation from her vacation” stay in Breaux Bridge will have restorative properties for Kristin, as well.


Tag: NOLA

Home again

Home again. I checked out of my hotel around noon on Monday. Noon, India time, which would have been 1:30 in the morning at home, given the whole 10 and a half hour time difference. (I don't get it either.) Approximately, 41 hours later I walked through my front door.

41.

Hours.

I kept trying to write of the experience, of the messed up lunch and being held hostage (sort of) by the hotel clerk and a pair of cab drivers as tempers and temperatures rose.

Of almost forgetting to say goodbye to those with whom I've shared everything for weeks.

Of fearing the very possible theft of my suitcase as I turned it over to a random guy in the airport who said he worked for the airline.

Of wanting to shower, needing to shower, craving a shower for days but not having a towel in my carry on bag, the replacement bag for the backpack with a broken zipper, the replacement with a broken zipper that I fixed in the airport while watching men shrink wrap luggage for an hour or four before the lights went out.

Of an airport blackout in Mumbai and people walking along as if nothing were wrong. We queued in the dark and waited to check into our flights. Tangentially, how can so many people randomly carry flashlights?

Of good flights and bad flights, my pillow frozen to the window, making friends on the plane.

Of wanting to heave in the back of a cab through rush hour beltway traffic as the driver sucked noisily on a cough drop. Vrooooom. Stop. Suck. Vrooooom. Suck. Stop. Vrooooom. Stop. Suck. Hand pressed against my lips to keep airplane food in place.

Of being alone for the first time since November 10.

I wanted to write of the experience, of wanting to leave and wanting to stay, of needing more time to figure it all out, but I am home again. Settled on the couch. And trying to sort out my life.

I caught up with my sister. My brother. Found out some less than happy family stories and struggled to wrap my mind around them.

I found out that someone broke my car window last week. The doors were unlocked.

It was parked behind my brother's apartment because the registration may or may not be expired and I haven't received a new sticker, a new parking permit.

I'll have to sort out the registration. Pay for the window. Accept the fact that my insurance company opened a claim because my brother called to ask about my coverage. Even though I was out of the country. And I didn't open a claim.

The repairs in my apartment that started three weeks ago still aren't finished. I have to figure that out, too, and try to get my keys from the rental company that hasn't actually done anything to help with coordinating repairs in the three months they've been tasked with the job.

And work. I read through the 136 messages and responded to some. I'd have to figure out the rest sooner rather than later.

41 hours. 42 by this point. Almost 43.

I wanted to write but I think I might just crawl into bed. I'll know better tomorrow how I feel about the trip. Fill in the gaps with the stories, like the horrible, terrible, no good, very bad day that ended up being one of the best days of the trip. Post pictures. Get back into my regularly scheduled life.

I am glad I'm going away next weekend, though. I need a break.


Tag: Travel

Goa-ing home

Home again, home again, jiggity jig.

Of course, it's not so simple from South India. Around midday, I'll fly from Goa to Mumbai, a place I only just left. The seven-hour layover might just give me enough time to explore but I'm not sure of the location of the airport or if I really want to head back into the chaos, knowing I have another flight to catch.

In the middle of the night, I head to Amsterdam. I traveled through the Netherlands on my way to India but didn't have enough of a layover to consider visiting. This time? Seven hours. It's almost worth a thought.

Of course, I do arrive at early morning, which would put me into rush hour traffic, but I'm not sure if rush hour in Amsterdam is the same as the rest of the world. It's such a bike-friendly place. And their might be a train into the city.

Then, again, the seven hours in Amsterdam might just be enough to make my skin crawl after seven hours in Mumbai and several hours on planes. By the time I get home, I will have flown 19 hours and traveled a total of 33. I have a feeling I'm going to smell. I might cry. I'll definitely sleep well before work in Wednesday morning.

Tag: Travel, Goa

How to deal

"Getting chased by men in their underwear really creeps me out," I observed when I'd returned to the rickety chaise. Helen laughed in understanding.

Krista had suggested a mid-afternoon dip to cool off, to perk up after a long lazy day at the beach. Virgine and I joined her. They in their bikinis and I in my Baywatch red racing suit walked out into the crashing waves. The surf seemed crowded so we half walked/half swam a little deeper, a little farther north.

The crowd joined us.

In shallow water, fully-dressed women splashed with their families. Toddlers pranced in their underwear as naked babies paddled, and around us, men in sodden briefs closed in.

We moved. They followed. We moved again. They pressed even closer, these men in clinging, damp cotton. Inder, our Sikh leader, joined us but did nothing to deter the men who circled like sharks, reaching for us with every stroke, with every crest and crash.

We soon tired of the threatening game they played and escaped to the beach chairs where so many stopped to ask for photographs, when they bothered to ask. Eventually, we'd escape to an internet cafe and return only for sunset.

Helen asked if I'd fancy a walk on the beach. We looked for starfish as the sun dipped lower in the sky. A trio of women approached and interviewed us for what seemed like a local news channel, microphone and camera catching our beach-blown selves. They wanted to know why we were in Goa, how long we'd stay, what foods we liked and what we bought. It all seemed surreal.

We walked on, still looking for starfish, and witnessed a drowning man pulled from the sea. He wasn't moving. The crowd dropped him on the sand and pumped against his stomach. We looked at each other in panic - former lifeguards, both, but unsure of our role.

When they flipped him, he coughed up water. Vomited. The most beautiful sight I'd seen in days. Our hearts started beating again. Very, very fast.

The starfish search proved fruitless, just one or two of the fish, but the sunset, the fourth in as many days on the Arabian Sea, took our breath away. Eventually, it came back and our hearts slowed.

We walked back to the hotel where a short in the converter blew a ball of flame into the room and scorched the stand. The bitter, acrid smoke left a bitter aftertaste, which we soon washed away with Kingfisher and dal, rice and fish.

A friend said things would go wrong in India, Mark told us that fateful, horrible/wonderful day in Mumbai. The only question was how we'd handle it. At that point, we threw money at the problem and changed our fortune. The last night in Goa, we simply shrugged and made our way to dinner. Everything would be fine.


Tag: Travel India

Still Goa-ing strong

When not on the beach, I plan to visit the many Portuguese-built monuments, wander around the Old Churches of Old Goa (a UNESCO World Heritage site) and discover Panjim, the capital.

Other than that, I want to eat as much of the incredible Goan food as I can. Goan cuisine is unique and recognized throughout India and the world for its fiery punch and strong coastal and Portuguese influences.

I hope that if I did get sick, I have recovered by now. Otherwise, I'm just relaxing on the beach, which sounds fine to me.

Tag: Travel, Goa

Goa

Beach accommodation...

Let me savor those words for a while, rolling them around my tongue and feel the grit between my toes.

Portuguese merchants first landed in Goa in the 15th century, and annexed it soon after. The Portuguese overseas territory (not technically a colony), existed for about 450 years, until it was captured by India in 1961.

Internationally renowned for its beaches, Goa is visited by hundreds of thousands of foreign and domestic tourists each year, and has become one of the most popular holiday destinations for European travelers.

I'm going back for a second, though... Beach. Accommodation. Happy Thanksgiving weekend to me!

Tag: Travel, Goa

More Mumbai

Photo ops abound in India, even with all the people of Mumbai.

I hope to rise at dawn to watch the morning ritual at the Sassoon Docks, South Mumbai's main fish loading and trading center, snap some pictures of the Gateway to India adn visit cave temples caved straight from the rock.

The markets, the restaurants, the local specialties... I think I need more time everywhere. Chowpatty Beach. Crawford Market. Nightlife.

Actually, I'm pretty sure I'll be ill-equipped for the Mumbai nightlife, but a girl can dream.

Tonight, I'll sleep on a second train, this one bound for Goa the last stop on my trip.

Tag: Travel, Mumbai

Mumbai

From the desert to the sea. Of people.

Mumbai (formerly known as Bombay) reigns chaotically as India’s most populous city, population 13 million. Actually, it forms the world's fifth most populous metropolitan area when combined with its suburbs, a total population of about 20 million.

In addition to the people, the city has a deep natural harbor and the port handles over half of India's passenger traffic and a significant amount of cargo.

But my favorite fact about the city is that Mumbai is the commercial and entertainment capital of India, home to the world-famous Hindi-language film industry, Bollywood.

Bring on the Hindi drama. Let's sing!

Tag: Travel, Mumbai

Gandhi

We started the day talking about philanthropy, finishing… continuing our conversation from the night before. Saving the world and all that. Not everyone believed the world needed saving.

An interesting discussion. A little spicy, much like the rest of the country.

“I see what you’re saying,” one said. “But it is so much work and so easy to undo the change.”

It reminded me of a favorite quote, one of my favorite print Ts bearing the words of Mahatma Gandhi. “Be the change you want to see in the world.”

“Just because it can be undone, it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try,” I protested.

Hours, dusty hours, later, we would find ourselves in Gandhi’s home, his ashram in Ahmedabad. A small pocket of peace between the road and the rivers, the bus and the train for us. Gandhi chose the site, in part, because it rested between the prison and the crematorium – the only real options upon leaving its gates.

As we wandered, we read his words and we read of his life. His death. The work that continues in his name. A man handed us literature on a local charitable organization. Over the days we’d seen so many poor, orphaned and maimed, begging in the streets. On my first day in Delhi, I refused a young woman with a babe in arms.

“I will always remember this as the day I refused food to a baby,” I observed when my stomach stopped churning.

In the same city, people lived in the median, between lanes of traffic, under the tracks of the metro. Throughout the country, people lived literally on the streets, sleeping on mats or nothing at all. On sidewalks. In door frames. On bus and train platforms.

It has been heart-wrenching to see of what Gandhi wrote and for whom he fought without fighting at all.

“My greatest worry is the ignorance and poverty of the masses of India and the ay in which they have been neglected by the classes,” Gandhi wrote.

“Just because it can be undone, it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try,” I repeated.


Tag: India Travel

How one prepares for a bus in India

• Dress in layers
• Cover your head (for leaning against the headrest)
• Don’t wear contacts
• Carry toilet paper and hand sanitizer
• Carry a packet of biscuits, another of crisps and a bottle of water
• Carry ear plugs
• Take an iPod and keep it close
• Don’t eat or drink too much before boarding
• Don’t wear your best (or cleanest) clothes
• Don’t let the person in front slide the window all the way back
• Tune in and drop out
• Soak it in
• Check on airfare
• Cover your mouth
• Bring a pillow
• Bring something to tie your seat back into the upright position
• Don’t sample roadside fare
• Please keep hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times (unless riding on top the bus via the luggage rack)
• Make friends with the locals
• Don’t expect a smooth ride even on the “major highways”
• Don’t go


Tag: India Travel

Ahmedabad

Back to the bus. And then an overnight train to Mumbai. Tunes from The Darjeeling Limited race through my head as I write. I plan to keep my shoes, avoid poisonous snakes and leave both my brother (and my laminator) at home.

In between the bus and the train, we have some time in Ahmedabad, home to Sabarmati Ashram, situated on the west bank of the Sabarmati River.

As India struggled for Independance prior to 1947, Gandhi made this place his headquarters and his spartan living quarters have been preserved. There is also a comprehensive pictorial record of his life on display.

According to the guide, a stop in the state of Gujurat would not be complete without tasting a famous "Gujurati Thali" a delicious and distinct cuisine which will definitely tickle your taste buds.

I suppose I could use a taste bud tickling before I board the train. Though, that sounds vaguely dirty.


Tag: Travel, Ahmedabad

Cooking in Udaipur

Ah, something other than taking pictures. Apparently, for the gastronomically inclined, I could learn the art of Indian cooking at Spice Box. I do make a mean curry already, but that wouldn't get me very far.

They say I'll have time for the cooking class and then the dossier throws out things like "visit a craft village and a folk museum or take in a fantastic cultural show at the Bagore-ki-Haveli - you might even get up and join in the dancing! Journey out to the hilltop Monsoon Palace for sunset or you can spend lazy afternoons just taking in the views from the rooftop cafes over hot, sweet chai."

Three days in Udaipur will not be enough. The whole trip feels rushed and I'm not even there yet. As I sit on my couch, typing away and watching Dexter, I think of the things I want to see and almost long to return before setting foot on a plane, much less Indian soil.

The nearby temple town of Nathdwara enshrines Shrinathji - an image of Krishna, which was originally enshrined at the Vraja Bhoomi at Mount Govardhana near Mathura. (The name Nathdwara means 'Gate of the Lord'.)

I could also hire a car and head to Kumbhal Garh Fort built in the 15th century and the nearby Jain Temples at Ranakpur.

Though, the last bit makes me think of the Rains at Ranchipur, a film from 1955 starring Lana Turner and Richard Burton. Tagline: Theirs was the great sin that even the great rains could not wash away!

I'm pretty sure it's not going to be that type of trip.


Tag: Travel, Udaipur

Perfect days

A slow sunny breakfast grew into a day of wandering. Almost the entire group found their way to the roof to break unbuttered toast served one plate at a time before going their separate ways. Some of us didn’t separate at all.

We wandered to the Jagdish Temple where we stopped for a second to watch a wedding procession that reminded me of New Orleans more than anything else with music and dancing. Then up the steep steps to the Hindi temple with carvings of Ganesha and Vishnu, the sun god of the royal family. Shiva with a mouse on his shoulder eating his garland. A real mouse. A live garland.

An unintentionally guided barefoot tour through the temple led to an exchange of cash and a request for foreign coins. Our coins. American. English. Australian. In the absence of change, I handed over a dollar and the guide and the guard beamed.

After the tour, the donning of shoes, Helen drove a hard bargain for tuk tuks to the Monsoon Palace. Two hundred rupees a vehicle up and back. Three auto rickshaws for the seven of us, but Eric was almost left behind. Forgotten. Again. As in most meals throughout the trip. But he made it up the serpentine road to the dilapidated heap with the rest of us.

Other than a spectacular view of Udaipur, there wasn’t much to see atop the mountain so we posed for pictures of each other and the random Indians who wanted pictures of us. I did take a couple of pictures for a family, the wife’s sari blending into the vibrant bougainvillea.

Then back down the steep curving road at dangerously high speeds, especially for an open-sided tuk tuk. The wildlife sanctuary through which we wound might have been teeming with creatures but the noise and the exhaust seemed to scare them away. At that speed, though, we would have missed anything short of an elephant.

Of course, we’d already seen elephants. Camels, horses and donkeys, dogs, cats and monkeys, rooster and chickens, peacocks and peahens, parrots, pigs and cows, Brahma bulls, heifers and calves. Water buffalo. Snakes coiled and curling. Goats and sheep. Chipmunks. Oh and the rats. Lizards. That might be it. A veritable menagerie.

But elephants. Elephants we did see. One pulled a cart through the road as waited by the temple for the return of all tuk tuks. Walking and shopping. We wandered through the Old City, past brightly colored open-faced shops with yard upon yard of sari silk. Jewelry. Bangles and bindi. Pashminas.

Inder would take us through a vegetable market later on our much-delayed orientation walk, joking with the vendors about our fear of the produce but we tried too much, especially given the six-hour bus ride followed by a 13-hour train ride.

Chai and samosas from street vendors. Fried dough soaked in syrup. Gulab janun. Large green olives that looked more like small green tomatoes. Fresh cheese from a street dairy. Paneer. Sugar from a wheel not unlike a block of cheese.

So much food from the streets, but we still found room for our evening repast. We’d lunched lightly on pastries from the German and “Franch” bakery ‘round the corner. Sweet but temporary.

As for dinner and a free night, 11 of the 15 of us met for dinner and walked a short way to The Whistling Teal where the beer was cold and reasonable, the food flavorful but light and the conversation, as always, animated. We pushed the tables together so we all might talk.

We returned to the hotel in time for hot showers: 8 to 11 in the morning and 7 to 10 at night – and repacked our bags for another long day of travel.

I settled in with a warm, happy glow.

“Perfect,” I thought. “Absolutely perfect.”


Tag: India Travel

People

I thought I was coming to India alone. I came to India alone but something happened in the meantime. The group I was supposed to see on occasion as we all moved from place to place and stayed together actually stayed together and not just in hotels. Tents. Trains. This group of 15 has bonded.

Strangely enough, we actually like each other

It started the first night in Delhi when the hotel failed to put me in a single room but rather in a family-sized spread in what felt like the basement conference room with another woman "from America." As it turned out, she was actually on the trip with me. Not only that, she lived about seven blocks from my Capitol Hill home, give or take a few. The group just went from there.

Today started with a breakfast fracas as dishes were served one or two at a time to a table of 16 and ended with the Swiss girls giggling as Inder chased them dressed only in his tank, towel and turban. Granted, that wasn't the highlight.

The highlight might have been walking around the City Palace complex and museum, seven of us trailing after a dirty old man who tried to change the price after our tour. He did, however, point out the "romantic room" as it differed from the king's and queen's chambers. The formerly royal family still lives in a palace off to the side.

The highlight might have been the boat ride to Jagminder or sitting in the sun on the lake palace with curtains billowing between the elephant statues. Eating a strange burrito of peppers, olives and feta folded into a triangle. Drinking a Foster's lager, the golden throat charmer. Shielding my eyes to see those with whom I whiled away a breezy afternoon.

The highlight might have been dinner. Sixteen people at a single table in a rooftop restaurant, sharing food and stories. Chana masala and chicken chow mein, fried chicken and mutton.

"It might be sheep. It might be goat."

The orders came out mostly right at roughly the same time. The food was good and cheap; though, problems might have come from our end as people forgot what they ordered.

The highlight might have been the subset of us who stayed at the table, sharing dessert and talking. Apple Pied and "shtrudel with custerd," chocolate cake and chai. They ran out of some of the things that we wanted: "moca cake" and "onnamin rolls" but what we had was perfect, delicious, spiced with laughter.

The highlight might have been the Bond film playing in the back. Octopussy: Shown every night at 8:15. Apparently, part of it was filmed in the palace. It might have been the fact that it seemed to be played every night in multiple hotels and restaurants across the old city, making us look for each new sign touting "Octopussy Show."

Whatever it was, the highlight of a free day in Udaipur, it revolved around this group. These people. Whom I've known little more than a week and so enjoy.

Another bus

"This is no bus to Jaipur," I thought as I tried to write in my notebook, the pen scratching across the page. In the front a baby cried endlessly. A man stood in the aisle beside us. I wondered if he’d stand the full seven hours of bumps and lulls along the way.

We apparently did not take the fast road.

The day started far too early; they all do. Last night, I slept fairly well, an extra blanket covering the gaps by the thick narrow one. On the way to Ajmer, through Pushkar, we saw more camels, monkeys, cows. Peacocks and their hens beside the road. Pigs rooting through the trash that littered the town and roadways.

I think I heard a pig in the middle of the night, once I removed the earplugs that deadened the drumming from the "cultural exposition" at our "exotic resort."

Honking horns pulled me from my reverie and thoughts of sleep, though, as a bus pulled alongside, attempting to pass. It stopped suddenly, dropped back in the face of an oncoming truck that swerved to the side.

"That was a bit tight," observed my seatmate.

I looked on in stunned silence as my heart tied to find a semi-normal beat. Minutes later, we were in the alternate position with brakes slamming, riders pitched forward, a truck seemingly inches from my window seat.

"I have to stop looking," I thought and closed my eyes.

I had forgotten, as we all slept, that Inder had said we’d stop in every "big and small town." We lost the man from the aisle. Four more took his pace. Six. Seven. Sixteen adults and four children.

Wind from an open window tangled my hair and stung my eyes. Dust coated my glasses, face, teeth. The man in front of me reclined into my lap, played with a baby and handed her back. Later, they’d switch, the young parents and the baby from several rows up with the men in front of us. The window? To get away from another, more inquisitive baby?

It was our second bus of the day broken up by our flashiest ride so far - a pimped out tuk tuk with red, velvet curtains and purple shag seat covers. The driver, quite proud, insisted on a photo from the front. He did the game head bob that was shared by the men in the aisle beside us, Mark’s new friends.

We shared snacks and photo. All told, we spent eight and a half on the bus. The last 35 kilometers took an hour and a half.

"If we’ve done this, we can do anything," my roommate proclaimed as we crashed on our bed in a beautiful room that seemed to make it all worthwhile. We lost the day but made it to Udaipur. There was something to be said for that.


Tag: India Travel

Tense and tents

Sleeping in tents in the desert sounds like fun until one is actually sleeping in tents in the desert. Granted, they were deluxe tents with high ceilings, electricity an indoor plumbing but the sun set early and nights were cold. It was in the 50s as I wrote and sure to drop.

We could here snores on either side. Conversations. Bowel movements. A couple of tents reported growls in the night. Dogs, thought one. Something larger thought others. A pig. A boar. A camel.

We rode camels through the Pushkar mela. People stopped to photograph us as we had so often of them. Gently rocking, we walked through the fair for an hour or so, two to a beast bedecked with ribbons and garlands.

Earlier, we were chased from the lake by priests angry that we hadn't paid steep prices for flowers to drop in the holy lake. I bore the brunt of the priest's anger for pulling a camera, which was acceptable by city regulations, if not his, as long as I didn't photograph the bathers, but we all shared his wrath by not playing, not paying.

"Go away," he shouted. "Go back to the bazaar."

A lake good for karma, my foot.

We walked up the steps of the ghat, found our shoes and left. Later, we walked back into town to find the post office (Note to self: Stamps must be glued, not licked) and a cyber café (a tiny, airless room with dysfunctional room and a half dozen men watching us work at prehistoric stations on sticky keyboards). We killed three computers and the electricity before we left.

A little shopping and back for Uno with the Swiss girls, a bucket shower of tepid water and dinner of blessedly bland food. Too many people complained of spice at lunch, which helped a number of souls as we dined on a buffet of boiled potatoes, cabbage soup and mac and cheese. We all pocketed bananas for breakfast.

As I wrote, drums beat into the cold, dark, desert night. We waited for horns. Strings. Keening. The sounds of traffic and life outside our tented walls picked up for the fair that would officially start in the morning.

I was almost glad to leave the hippie haven with its special (bhang) lassi and angry priests, begging babes and people selling everything including themselves in pictures, but there was something about it. The people in dreads and patchwork clothes. The temples. The sunset. The fair. Under my extra blankets, I slept soundly and dreamed of cottage cheese.

Tag: India Travel

Lakes of Udaipur

More photo ops... The city's lakes, Pichola Lake, Fateh Sagar, Udai Sagar and Swaroop Sagar, are considered among the most beautiful in Rajasthan. An island in Fateh Sagar is even home to the Udaipur Solar Observatory, one of six stations participating in the international Global Oscillations Network Group (GONG), which studies the physical properties of the solar interior.

I haven't a clue as to what that means.

Alternatively, Lake Pichola is a serene place to enjoy a boat ride.

Tag: Travel, Udaipur

Udaipur

Today we're heading south to the Udaipur, famous worldwide for its plethora of breathtaking lakes and Raj-era palaces. Note: I was really tired when I read this and thought it said "famous for its pickpockets," which would be good information to have but isn't really a selling point. Especially for the single place in which we'll spend a solid chunk of time.

Anyway, famous for breathtaking lakes and Raj-era palaces, Udaipur boasts a reputation as India's most romantic city.

Honestly, I don't know what I'm going to do with that, either. Take some pictures, I suppose, but really, that's why I'm in India. For the experience. The photos. The food. The people.

Most famous of the palaces, and certainly the most photographed, is the Lake Palace, an island-palace where the white marble buildings (now a hotel) entirely cover a small island in Pichola Lake. Originally known as the Jag Niwas, the palace took three years to build and was inaugurated in 1746.

Tag: Travel, Udaipur

Magic

After dinner, after far too many dishes, a bottle of Indian rum and bottles of King Fisher, we headed out into the cold desert night. Between the dining tent and ours, a man stoked a bonfire. In the dim, flickering light a man held the ends of a netted bag with a boy inside, working a magic trick that involved the boy, a snake and a couple of timid members of the audience.

In the time it took the magician to complete the trick, replete with running commentary in Hindi – not a word of which we understood – the boy disappeared and reappeared. As did the snake.

Later, we'd walk through the dark to our tent. My flashlight stopped working sometime between home and Pushkar. I found my way in the dark, however, to our deluxe tent with indoor plumbing. A toilet and a shower with naturally heated water, but the desert night meant it was far too cold for showering this morning.

I found myself bathing with a bucket of hot water tempered by tap, washing and conditioning my hair, rinsing off the layer of dust that covered everything. I feared I smelled something like the camels we'd seen filling the distant hills and the streets for the festival.

We rode one this afternoon, after a trip to the only Brahmin temple in the world. Or India. Or somewhere. And hours of walking and shopping.

For the first time, we found ourselves the subjects of pictures, riding camelback as we'd taken so many pictures of others. Children walked alongside, calling hello. Asking for tips. Always selling, begging, touching.

So much more to write but we've killed the electricity once and I must get back to our tent village. After a little more shopping.

Pushkar and the camel fair

Most travelers know Pushkar for a different reason: the annual Pushkar Camel Fair, usually held in October or November. It's actually going to be here next week. I don't know if we'll get to see any of the tent villages that spring up around the city, not to mention the food stalls and the livestock.

Maybe I shouldn't mention them together.

Apparently, even without the camel fair, local traditions dictate a camel ride in the desert. I've never been on a camel, but after an elephant, it shouldn't be anything, right?

Then, again, I read that I might want to climb to hilltop Savitri temple at dawn.

What to do? What to do?! Immerse myself in the holy side of this sacred city and visit the 14th century Brahama temple and holy Lake Pushkar? Pick a more secular pleasure and wander the markets?

Rajasthan is rightfully famous for its textiles, jewelery and handicrafts, and few places in the country are better for shopping than the bazaars of Pushkar.


Tag: Travel, Pushkar

Pushkar

By bus again. This time over Snake Mountain. It doesn't seem too far, though.

Site of the world's only temple to the Hindu god of creation Brahma, Pushkar is often called "Tirth Raj," the Raj (king) of pilgrim centers. No pilgrimage of Hindu places is considered complete until the pilgrim bathes in sacred waters of Pushkar Lake; indeed, the city is so sacred that no meat, alcohol or eggs are allowed within the city.

Hurray for vegetarianism!

Tag: Travel, Pushkar

Elephants and Dostoyevsky

No wonder I’m tired. I woke early to get ready in the dark. Actually, I woke early as we all seem to do and begged my tired mind to rest, eventually getting up to get ready in the dark.

“You can make as much noise as you want.”

Apparently my roommate did not sleep so well either.

I dressed quickly and pulled my hair back before running down for a little time on the computer. I barely made it anywhere before another traveler poked her head into the closet-sized room to tell me we needed to leave. Tired and hungry, grumpy and preoccupied, I snapped. Apologized. Left for a cold morning ride in the dawning day to the outskirts of town and an elephant.

“You ride like a queen,” the man at the head of the queue told me, a solo traveler in a sea of pairs. We were an odd number but I didn’t want to miss a chance that kept heffalumps and woozles running through my head all day.

I smiled the whole way, crosslegged atop a platform atop a swaying behemoth. I took pictures of my friends and they of me, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

The ride ended too soon but the fort was enough to capture our interest. One thousand rooms, said a guide, for the king and his wives. Steps and halls, long corridors and courtyards dating back to the 1590s. Heat and exhaustion set in before we saw them all and we walked “the wrong way” down a hill into the old city.

The new city beckoned, though. Lunch. Or breakfast even. Shopping. Picking up tickets for a movie. Hours later, six of us sat in plush, velvety darkness watching ads for skin bleaching cream and chai, waiting for three hours of Hindi drama and dancing with a take on Dostoyevsky’s White Nights.

Cell phones rang. Babies cried. The men down the our row on the balcony whistled into the dark and people cheered the old familiar story: Prostitute meets boy. Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love with girl. Girl’s heart belongs to another. Hookers and Muslim men in white break out into synchronized, choreographed dancing on a set somewhere between Paris, Venice and Moscow with a giant Buddha head for good measure. Vegas?

At dinner, as a woman, a new friend, questioned her rich, buttery chicken, I warned of strange dreams.

“Elephants will be dancing through your sleep.”

“That’s OK with me,” she replied.

With my spicy Rajasthani Special (Gaat), I thought the same.


Tag: Travel India

Jaipur, the pink city

Founded in 1728, Jaipur, or 'The Pink City' as it is often called, is unlike any other premodern Indian city, in that the entire town was planned according to the principles of Hindu architectural theory. The city is in fact built in the form of a nine-part mandala known as the Pithapada, which combined with wide streets makes for an unusually airy, orderly atmosphere. That the results of this urban planning have so endured to this day is nothing short of miraculous.

Enter the heart of the mandala (on foot or by cycle rickshaw) and you are in the central palace quarter, with its sprawling Hawa Mahal palace complex, formal gardens and a small lake. Built in 1799, the "Palace of Winds" was part of the City Palace, an extension of the Zenana or chambers of the harem. Its original intention was to allow royal ladies to observe everyday life in the street below without being seen. Constructed of red and pink sandstone highlighted with white lime, the five-storied facade is peppered with 953 small windows. The breeze (hawa) that comes through the windows keeps it cool even in hot months, and gives the palace its name.

Just 15 km from central Jaipur is the ruined city of Amber, former capital of Jaipur state. Founded by the Meenas, Amber was a flourishing settlement as far back as 967 AD. Overlooking the artificial lake south of Amber town stands the Amber Fort/Palace complex, famous for its mixture of Hindu and Muslim architecture. At the bottom of a hill sits Amber Fort, initially a Palace Complex within the Fort of Amber on top of the hill (today known as Jaigarh fort). The two forts are connected through well-guarded passages, and there is even the option of an elephant ride from the town up to the palace courtyard.


Tag: Travel, Jaipur

Indiana

I didn’t know a bus ride could be so wonderful. So awful and uncomfortable and downright smelly, but wonderful.

Six hours from Agra to Jaipur with a midway stop for lunch, we rode public transportation. I shared a seat with Inder, our leader. He offered his shoulder if I wanted to sleep but every time I closed my eyes, a horn brought me from my reverie.

I didn’t really want to sleep anyway.

It was just the rocking, the heat of the air conditioned bus and full sunlight through windows covered sporadically with grimy curtains. We shared a paper as well as the seat and talked current events, movie stars and politics as we made our way through Rajasthan, the state closest to Pakistan, very much in the news.

The world outside drew most of my attention, though. The fields. The villages. The children calling and waving as we passed, white faces in the window.

A day later, certain images seem burnt in my mind. Sunlight filtered through a scarf as a woman pumps water from a well. A caravan of camels dotted with saris every color of the rainbow. Bougainvillea in magenta, orange and white. Miles and miles of flowers separating the road. Music floating in through the windows from passing cars.

Honestly, I’ll take that bus ride over the trip from DC to NYC any day. It was incredible and we ended up in Jaipur. One of the first things I saw: A snake charmer with a cobra. I almost stepped on one or the other. Cows and goats, donkeys, horses and dogs. A rooster or five. Camels. Elephants. Animals. People. Bikes, rickshaws, motorcycles, trucks, tuk tuks. Horns blared but it seemed a little calmer inside the pink-walled city.

Workers dismantled a Diwali structure that spread high above the street. Inder (our guide) walked six of us around the bizarre offering bites of strange foods and bartering on our behalf as we whiled away the hours before dinner.

“Where are we going? The Illinois?” asked one of our group as we made our way.

“The Indiana Restaurant.”

Overpriced but still cheaper than anything at home, we enjoyed fresh food. Giant bottles of Kingfisher. Traditional Rajasthani dances hindered by our unfortunate but laughing participation. I could have laid my head on the table and slept right there, under the stars, but we made it back to the hotel where my dreams were filled with music and color.


Tag: Travel India

The Taj, the crowds, the everything

It wasn’t just the children; though, they were more brazen than their parents with the sly, shy smiles. At the Taj Mahal, a man stooped, touched the tops of my covered shoes and kissed his fingers. He disappeared into the crowd without a word, not the I would have understood him anyway.

Children clamored around Krista, a dozen or so smiling under downcast eyes, saying “hello,” sticking out their hands and tittering. Later, a family asked her to pose for a photo while another mother and her young sons grinned at me, pointing at my glasses. Another boy pulled in to watch me change my film and take pictures with the digital, straining to see the screen.

We seemed to rival the appeal of the magnificent marble dome we’d all come to see – of the 20,000 or so daily visits, I think 19,958 of them stared, touched or took pictures of us.

The inner sanctum was incredible – hot, stuffy, marvelously rank with whistles blowing and bare feet shuffling, bodies pressed one against another. Floral designs inlaid in marble. People sitting in whatever shade they could find, waiting for sunset and the colors to change, shift, deepen. All hoped for a breeze.

We started at the crowded East Gate but made our way through hawkers and touts to the south, keeping our eyes straight, mouths set to “no.”

"No... No, thank you. No."

Cows and dogs filled the trash-lines streets. Children begging. Tuk tuk drivers calling. Horns blaring.

We'd started out at the Agra Fort. Actually, we started out with a 6 a.m. train followed by tuk tuks (auto rickshaws), the hotel and then the sprawling Agra Fort with space to wander, to breathe, to explore.

Baby Taj: Small but beautiful. A drive down an unknown road to an unrequested destination. A marble inlay factory. "Just to look, no buy." A bridge that one might only describe as indescribable. Cars and rickshaws, bikes and tuk tuks filled with more people than one might ever imagine in, on or clinging to an overgrown golf cart.

Monkeys scampered beside the road. We'd seen an elephant from the train. Barbers shaved men with straight-edged razors in roadside chairs. Cows plunked down in roundabouts as vehicles careened around them. The air, rich and redolent, dirty and thick clung to everything.

After the noise and the crowds, the stares and the constant talking, touching, selling, we gave up. We went to Pizza Hut, checked our email and napped. Too much, too soon. We'd brave it again in an hour or so, but for the moment only distant honking broke the silence.


Tag: India Travel

Jaipur and the bus

From early morning trains to local buses, I seem to be getting a feel for India as well as seeing the countryside.

This morning we headed to the pink stucco capital of Rajasthan, Jaipur, one of the most important heritage cities in India and home to the Hawa Mahal (Palace of the Winds). With any luck, after the bus, I'll hop atop an elephant for a ride to the Amber Fort Palace.

Actually, with any luck, after the bus, I'll still be walking. I might need a shower.


Tag: Travel, Jaipur

Cumin

Women in saris ride side saddle on the back of motorcycles. Beggar children turn flips and play drums in the middle of the street as we wait for the light to change. The driver gave them money; Krista, candy.

“It smells of a strange combination of urine and cumin,” I observed, walking down the street earlier.

“It is a cumin-rich diet and that is definitely urine,” she responded wryly.

“As we’re about to see…”

A man adjusted his zipper and prepared to douse the well-soaked wall just steps from where we stood on the sidewalk.

Tuk tuk. Cab. Rickshaw for three. I rode on the bicycle seat to the bank; Linda took it on the way back. Fifty cents, give or take a little, for one of the oddest rides of my life, the first ride of my first morning in Delhi. Backwards on a bicycle seat as a man peddled us down a smoggy street.

“I should be looking, not writing,” I penned. “But the driving scares me.”

I wanted to cover my eyes. I did cover my eyes and eventually moved from front to back to calm my racing heart. I wasn’t sure where we were going. I couldn’t see it anyway for the smog, the dirty gray curtain of air anyway. India Gate. Parliament. The site of Ghandi’s cremation. The obligatory stops at pricy, tourist shops.

“Ah, the Red Fort,” I wrote. “Old Delhi.”



Tag: Travel India

Agra and the Taj Mahal

Holy early morning, Batman. We needed to catch the 6:15 train to the Muslim city of Agra.

In the words of GAP Adventures...
Agra is best known as the site of India's most famous landmark, the Taj Mahal. Visit this icon of Mughal architecture either in the morning or late afternoon for the best light, and be sure to bring lots of film! Ride one of the ubiquitous cycle rickshaws to visit the Red Fort.

Constructed between 1631 and 1654 by a workforce of 22 000, the Taj Mahal was built by the Muslim Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan as a mausoleum for his favorite wife, Arjumand Bano Begum, better known as Mumtaz Mahal (Jewel of the Palace). Mumtaz had already borne the emperor fourteen children when she died in childbirth, and it is the romantic origin of the Taj as much as its architectural splendor that has led to its fame worldwide. Actually an integrated complex of many structures, the Taj Mahal is considered the finest example of Mughal architecture, itself a combination of Islamic, Hindu, Persian and Turkish elements.

The walled palatial city of the Red Fort, was first taken over by the Moghuls, at that time led by Akbar, in the late 16th century. Akbar liked to build from red sandstone, often inlaid with white marble and intricate decorations, and it was during his reign that the fort began changing into more of a royal estate.

However, it was only during the reign of Akbar's grandson, Shah Jahan (who would eventually build the Taj Mahal) that the site finally took on its current state. Unlike his grandfather, Shah Jahan preferred buildings made from white marble, often inlaid with gold or semi-precious gems, and he destroyed some earlier buildings inside the fort in order to build others in his own style. At the end of his life Shah Jahan was imprisoned in the fort by his son, Aurangzeb. It is said that Shah Jahan died in Muasamman Burj, a tower with a marble balcony with an excellent view of the Taj Mahal.

The fort was also a site of one of the most important battles of the Indian rebellion of 1857, which caused the end of the British East India Company's rule in India, leading to a century of direct rule of India by Britain.

Taj. Mahal. Wow.


Tag: Travel, Agra

Delhi

Much like last year's trip to Turkey, I'm writing posts in advance of my trip to keep it from going completely dark for the next couple of weeks.

I arrived in Delhi last night, close to midnight, with hopes that my airport transfer would meet me outside of customs. I'm a little a little too nice to enforce a strict "no smiling" policy to deter touts at the airport, especially after 19 hours of travel. With my luck, I'd probably end up with 16 hotel rooms and no way to get there.

My biggest fear – other than being turned away at the gate because I didn't get a proper visa or the required travel insurance or I'm too close to the expiration date on my passport – is Delhi belly. Just about everyone gets sick at some point on trip to India and with a whirlwind itinerary, I don't know when I might recover.

Then, again, my favorite day of last year's trip would be a day I affectionately refer to as "the day I wanted to die." I darn near ended up sitting in my own filth in the car as we visited Priene, Miletus and Didyma, ancient ruins along the Aegean. For those with delicate sensibilities, I'll leave out the details but for a note to the effect that unfamiliar meds are not good, even if one came down with shingles the night before leaving.

Anyway, Delhi belly… It's too soon for that.

With any luck and a little bit of sleep, I'll make it out to the famous Jama Masjid (Great Mosque) to climb the minaret for a bird's eye view of the old city. I could explore Chandni Chowk, one of India's oldest and busiest markets or the colorful spice market a great photo opportunity. (With only five rolls allowed into the country, I've stocked up on memory cards and rechargeable batteries for the digital.)

Other options include the ruins of Qutab Minar, the fabulous architecture of Humayun's Tomb or the stunning Swaminarayan Akshardham Temple carved out of pink sandstone and white marble. Unfortunately, much of the city is closed on Monday. Next visit, I swear…

This afternoon, I'll meet up with the rest of the group and discover with whom I'll be traveling for the next couple of weeks. I'll even get a roommate. I hope she's cool.

Oh, now I have picture of the man with whom we shared a room on the Atlantic Clipper ages ago. A tall skinny, Asian man with a 'fro and a Speedo. Purple. Keeping my fingers crossed.


Tag: Travel

The Saints are Marching

By NOLA Celeste

I’ve seen my grandfather cry twice.

The first time was on Easter Sunday in 1990. I had announced to the dinner table that I was preparing a project on World War II for my World History class. After the table was cleared and the leftovers packed away, my grandfather grabbed my hand and walked me to the back of the house. “Cessie,” he said, using his special nickname for me, “I am going to tell you something once and I never want you to ask me about it again.” “Okay, PaPa,” I said, perplexed.

He then flashed back to when he was 19 years old, hiding under a pew in a bombed-out church in western Germany. German soldiers had surrounded the church and began storming in, pulling him and other hunkered-down U.S. solders from underneath various pews and lining them up on what used to be the altar. One of the German soldiers pulled out a gun and began shooting the U.S. solders one-by-one, execution style. When he pointed the gun at my grandfather, he stopped and touched the “Circled T” patch – indicating that my grandfather was a translator – with the barrel of the gun. The other German soldiers took him out of the execution line. The rest of my grandfather’s group was summarily murdered.

My grandfather’s uniform sported the “translator patch” because his first language was French. He only spoke Cajun French until the public school teachers sent to Lafourche Parish by state senators in Baton Rouge beat him, literally, into learning English in fourth grade. After Cajun French ended up saving his life, the Nazis brought him to a POW camp where he translated orders between American, French and British troops. He ate nothing but raw potatoes, caught scurvy and dwindled to 125 pounds. One day, apparently, the Germans just . . . left. He was rescued and brought to Paris where he rode through the Arc de Triomphe as a war hero.

As he ended the story, silent tears streamed down my grandfather’s face. “Remember, Cessie, never ask me about this again.” He walked away. I understood.

The second time I saw my grandfather cry was when the Saints won their first playoff game in 2000.

My grandfather has been a Saints season ticket holder since game one, year one in 1967. Unfortunately, he missed Tom Dempsey’s then-record field goal in now-demolished Tulane stadium because, as would happen many times during his career as a Saints fan, he got frustrated with their performance and left early.

I have been a Saints season ticket holder since I was old enough to walk down to our row of seats in the Superdome. When I was very young (and the team stunk), I would bring a coloring book to the game, completely oblivious to what was going on around me.

I was a Saints season ticket holder during the Saints’ “year in exile” post-Katrina. They played four “home” games in LSU stadium in Baton Rouge and four “home” games in San Antonio.

NFL football is just not meant to be played in LSU stadium. The stadium holds more people than there are season ticket holders. The crowd looked like the crowd at a high school game.

Saints football is just not meant to be played in San Antonio. My husband and I traveled to San Antonio for one of the “away” home games. After about a half hour of fuming, I turned around and very calmly told a lady behind me, who was holding a “San Antonio Saints” sign (Tom Benson, the Saints’ owner, has been threatening to move the team to San Antonio for years), that her sign was an insult all Katrina victims, especially the lady interviewed on television wearing a Saints jersey who told news reporters that she saw her elderly mom drown while trying to escape the flood waters in the 9th Ward.

She put the sign down for the rest of the game.

I have also cried at a Saints game before. Last year’s Monday Night Football Season Opener against Atlanta... the first time that the public was let back into the Superdome since it became a deathtrap in 2005. After Greenday and U2 performed, the Saints ran onto the field in a burst of indoor fireworks and streamers. I sobbed. I grabbed the total stranger in front of me, who was also sobbing, and stood there in an exaggerated hug while they introduced the starters. In that moment, all of the death, destruction, thirst, hunger, unsanitary conditions and abject fear that had filled the Superdome during Katrina was exorcised.

In that moment, the Saints... and the city.... marched on.

Hurry up and wait

One hour until we leave for the airport. On the way, we'll pass the Capitol, the Smithsonian, the Washington Monument. We'll loop around the Lincoln and head west. On 66. The toll road. To the airport. Dulles. A plane bound for Amsterdam and another to Delhi. I get in Sunday around midnight.

I'm so excited. And still a little scared.


Tag: Travel

Scaredy cat

Did I mention that I'm scared? Hmmm... Maybe not. But I am. Terrified, really, of my vacation.

I travel a lot, less than some but more than most, and other than the occasional work-related mayhem, it's pretty much all for fun.

"I'm going to India this weekend," I mentioned to the guy at the Grill, the one who wanted a woman, the one who asked me if I were planning to attend an upcoming dance event.

"Why?" he asked, followed shortly by, "Isn't that expensive?"

"It's not too bad," I replied. "It's important to me. It's how I prioritize my money."

"Wouldn't you rather have nice little house with a yard?"

"No." And I wouldn't.

I'd rather see the sun rise over Cappadocia from the basket of a balloon. Strap on crampons to