Back on the train gang

I love when people share. It just warms my heart. Last nigh the couple in our alcove of this train shared their dinner. Ladyfingers, which is what we call okra, and roti, and chilis! So in Indian culture, you have to decline the offer of food at first.

The host will offer again, and if you really don't want it, it's ok to refuse. But it's also cool to accept at second offer. Katie and I declined as proper, then the rest of the family was served, and it came back to us again. We partook. I offered our peanut butter and crackers, twice, but was informed that it was too high in cholesterol. Oh, sweet peanut butter. You're such a devil!

Also, before bed, the gent removed his turban. Given how full his beard is, I expected a quaff. To my surprise, he gathered the few tiny strips of red hair from all over his head and tied them into a speck of a bun on the top of his head. Like, head gear rubber band small.

So off the train at maybe 5:30 am, Udaipur. Wake up! You're in a new city. Stumbling out of the train headed to the taxi stand, we were greeted by a petite, bald Indian man in a plaid snap shirt, dark pants, and cowboy boots. He told us he'd drive us to our hotel. I told him that we'd be fine on our own and kept on to the taxi stand. The man called out that it wasn't open yet. But I, of course, persisted. Again, the man, "I am not lying to you. I cannot lie." So I asked him how much. Sixty-four rupees. I laughed. When I booked the hotel the day prior, they quoted eighty/ninety rupees. So, instead of charging a buck fiddy, this guy is going charge us $1.27. What a trip. Oh, and just so you know, the taxi stand gate was down and locked. I checked.

In the cab, technically auto-rickshaw, Jamil showed us his book as is often the case in tourist spots. Notes from travelers all over the world written to Jamil for Jamil. Endorsements. Pages of them.

He got us to Jaiwana Haveli. just fine, and as we got out, he told us to pay him later. Wow. Twenty minutes

in and we've already started a tab! Our room not yet ready, we headed to the rooftop cafe for some breakfast. Talk about views. Udaipur is breath-taking. Hills of white houses, hotels, temples all looking out over a huge lake. Fresh air, blue sky...if ever there were a place for lovers...Oh! And James Bond! Octopussy was filmed in Udaipur. And there are nightly rooftops showings dotting the hills. The posh Lake Palace Hotel floats in the middle of the lake.

A palace built in the 1700s, it is a destination. At least, we can see it from our hotel window. Our hotel is nice. Nothing fancy, but nice. The rooftop cafe and terrace is such a bonus. Oh, and the fobs for our room keys are small brass elephants.

Bridges

Up before sunrise this morning, we opted for another boat ride out on the Ganges. Before setting out,

though, we watched two workers in bright yellow pennies with reflective strips use long sticks to dislodge the body that had floated by our boat the night before. They nudged it out into the middle of the river and let it go its course.

The captain on our rowboat this morning is Ravi. He enjoys speaking in English and takes pride in his work. Cruising along the shoreline, he stops at the main bathing spot in Varanasi. People of all kinds come for a morning shower, to clean themselves and their clothes. And in the same water where dead bodies are released to heaven. The belief in the healing powers of the Ganges (the Ganga River, as it is called) is so strong that people wash in it daily to cleanse their

spirits and be closer to the gods.

Ravi gave us details about the wood-burning pyres versus the newer electric pyre. Those who have money can afford to cremate their loved ones with wood. Those with less have to resort to electricity. We rode by both. And while neither is particularly glamorous, there does remain something romantic about a wood funeral pyre. Maybe it conjures up

Star Wars images in my mind, or maybe I'm just a fiery soul. But to have to cremate your loved one on an electric fire seems all the more tragic. There is another option, however, for those without the money for the electric ghat. They just dump the body into the Ganges and hope that the soul reaches Nirvana.

Back to the hotel after our morning ride, the man at the front desk with whom we had arranged both boat rides asked what our plans were for the day. We had only the one day to spend in Varanasi, given the agenda of the wedding back in Delhi, and in mentioning our agenda, the man became infuriated. He said, "You cannot see all the Varanasi has to offer in one day?!?" We scurried back to our room, gathered our things, and planned our check-out escape. While we only had a day to take in as much as we could, we felt that a day was better than none. And in leaving, it seems Varanasi is a contradiction in terms. The place where the holiest of holy acts occurs is rife with touts looking to make a buck off of others' grief. In a place where everyone wears white to reflect a purity of soul, the streets are full of cow manure, dirt, garbage. At our hotel which overlooks a cremation site, the man behind the desk did all he could to bully us into seeing the gold brocade saris of Varanasi. While one would hope the emphasis of the town would be on cleansing the spirit, surrendering to what is sacred, more often than not the focus turned to the basest of human behavior. So saddened to admit, we lamented at finding ourselves calling it 'Very Nasty'.

In any of the photos I have posted, however, please look closely. There is one phenomenon about

Varanasi that no one seems to talk about. The kites. The city's roofs are full of children flying kites of all colors. Soaring in the skies toward the heavens, the children dance with their kites all along on the rooftops throughout the city. Mesmerizing, it makes one wish there were bridges from rooftop to rooftop such that one could travel and traverse the city through kites, clouds, and souls ascending to heaven.

Varanasi

In my travels over the years, it seems that a few interests in particular, or curiosities about humanity continue to recur.

Of course, I enjoy cultural exchange and want to experience the human condition from place to place overall, but in reviewing my photos over the years, I think I may be preoccupied mostly by three things: laundry, graffiti, death. How we keep ourselves clean, how we express ourselves on a street level, if at all, and how

we care for our dead. On that note, I have had a particular interest in visiting Varanasi (also called Banaras) while here in India. Katie and I found an affordable ticket, so today we embarked on the hour-long flight to Varanasi.

Out of the airport, we took a fifteen-minute cab ride to the cobblestone hills of Varanasi that rest on the banks of the Ganges. It can be a difficult thing at times being a tourist. I am thankful and lucky, don't get me wrong. But you stick out. Especially in a place where people have come to cremate their family members, with steadfast hope and belief that being spread to rest in the Ganges sends the departed straight to Nirvana.

Different cultures view death in distinct ways. For many, death is about grief. For others, release. For others still, the focus is on celebrating life more than mourning the end of it. Curious, but respectful, I hope to remain here.

Cars cannot pass through the small streets of Varanasi, so our cab left us as close to our hotel as he could. If you don't pay attention in Varanasi, you can easily get lost at first. There are no street signs, but painted tags and signs on the walls at intersections and pretty much anywhere else. After a long walk through the maze of streets, among cows, cow droppings, dogs, temples, restaurants, tourists and

locals alike, we made it to Hotel Scindia. Having checked into our room, we quickly realized that the burning ghat was one building away from our hotel. All hours of the day, smoke billows up from the funeral pyres. Also a stone's throw from the Ganges, the temple in front of our hotel has been sinking into the river for years. After settling in and booking an evening boat ride with the hotel, Katie and I strolled the streets for some lunch. Standard Indian fair and some beers in us, we headed back to our hotel, taking the route in front of the burning ghat.

As we approached, two of our countryfolk, dressed both in tank tops and shorts, passed us and warned us about the touts surrounding the ghat. Now, I know I should have brought something white to wear in Varanasi, as white clothing is customary for Indian cremation. But I at least have covered my arms and legs. Imagine showing up to a funeral States-side dressed like an 80s Price Is Right model. Even odder, they were the ones offering us advice. Out of respect for the ritual and the families, no photography is allowed at the ghat.

Our evening ride started well enough. Our guide did not speak much English, so we all stuttered through conversation. And then, Katie and I both saw it. A

body. Wrapped all in white, it floated right past our boat. I have never in my life been so close to a dead body. And while it had already undergone cremation, I think, its form was still somewhat in tact. Freaky. It set off a flurry of questions in my mind. Who was it? Male? Female? Who will take care of it? Or will it just be left to decompose? I guess I should have expected such a scenario, but through the years of this curiosity, I have never been so confronted with such a situation. And then I thought about what else might be in the water in the river...

The Havan

Surrounded by family and friends, Rukhein and,

specifically, Kristy were officially welcomed into Rukhein's family home today at a Hindu ceremony called the Havan. Twenty or so of us sat on blankets across the floor. And as we walked in, I caught a glimpse of Rukhein's uncle, dressed in all white against a white staircase, sewing together a lei of marigolds.  One thing I'll never forget about India is the color. Splashes of such rich fabrics, iridescence, and shimmers everywhere. Kristy and Rukhein joined last, with a pundit, stopping at the

threshold of the house for several blessings from both the pundit and from Chinky. As much symbolic as literal, the bride enters the home and becomes the woman of the house. The Havan also invokes the god of fire to symbolize the couple's commitment to each other. As the pundit led them through the rites and rituals, he blessed them

with good fortune and health. He spoke in Sanskrit prayers to a range of gods, Lakshmi, Shiva, Vishnu. Those were the only words I could recognize. Flowers given unto the gods, money tied between the couple, and the fire pit in the center, we were all bore witness to their commitment to each other. Throughout the ceremony,

each of us gave an offering to add to the couple's fortune. The pundit approached each of us, giving us a blessing and tying string around our arms to signify the bond of the day. Toward the end of the ceremony, we were given an offering of sandalwood and nuts (it resembled mulch and granola) to throw bit by bit into the flame with each of the pundit's blessings. The ceremony was finalized with Kristy cooking this traditional confection for the family. Given that the home is still under serious

renovation, Kristy cooked over a kerosene tank.

After the ceremony, we shopped. Jackie and her husband arrived from Kenya last night and found a sari for her and traditional Punjabi dress for him on our first stop. That evening we dined at Chinky's friend Amita's house for dinner. Her German Shepard Google was skittish around our motley dozen.

The Taj Mahal

We woke up today at 5am to grab a cab to the train station to Agra and the Taj Mahal.

Katie and I boarded the train in car D7 with seats next to one another. There are benches three seats wide technically, although the locals pack 'em in as much as possible. The windows slide closed with a metal grate or vent and for the life of me, I couldn't help but feel some sense of doom.

We weren't shoved in like cattle, but the train has a well worn in feeling. Used. Not like a good shoe, but stiff, uncomfortable, outdated. Nothing fancy at all.  I haven't noticed much graffiti in India.  Not on the trains, or the platforms, not on the building as we rode today.  I guess spray paint is a luxury.

And the smells headed south along the track. Rank stench. Not immediately upon entering the car, but as we traveled south of Delhi and passed through slum after slum, I had to cover my nose and mouth with my scarf. I began to understand what others had warned me about. We have been sheltered, Katie and I, so far. Quite sheltered and comfortable.

Trash is piled everywhere, not bags of trash like on the sidewalks of New York, or like you chuck into your garbage can at the curb. But mounds of it. All arrays of colors, picked over countless times. And piled next to people's one room dwellings, three-walled shanties with a blue tarp ceiling if lucky. Cows pick through the garbage. Goats. Humans. Children.

Men defecate in the grass 20 yards from the train tracks as the trains pass, in full view of passengers, standing up and dressing when finished.  Sanitation is lacking at best.  And rain water washes waste into pools in gullies, glowing green at times, radioactive swirls among a murky, dark gray, flies aswarm.

The family of three across from us ate breakfast on the train, tossing each piece of trash out the window as its contents were consumed. A juice box, aluminum foil, a chips bag, and so on.

The only one with any qualms about doing it was the son. It's old hat for his parents. I imagine their rationalization, "We don't live among the rubbish, so what's the big deal?" It makes me wonder what Indian prisons are like. Do they have the overcrowding that we do? And how come certain crimes don't receive trash pick-up as punishment? Then again, I'm not sure that all the criminals in the world on trash duty could remedy India's problem.

A boy who looks like he's five, but is probably a malnourished eight, just passed through the aisle. He has a coal mustache drawn on his lip, what looks like charcoal for eyeliner, and cheeks painted red. His partner in the show follows him beating a drum. The first boy is wearing a beanie with a string attached with a lead sinker at the end. He claps his hands, swings the beanie putting the weight into orbit about his head, and strikes a pose. For his next trick, he climbs into a ten inch metal ring and wriggles his entire body through it, then raising above his head. He's so thin, it's not as impressive a trick as it is sad. After the show, he walks around with a pan for donations. Next come the ladyboys. Dressed in saris, one leans onto the men across the aisle from us, teasing and joking with them. I'm not sure whether services are being offered and denied or appointments are being finalized. Three pass through the car. Their ruse: give me money or I'll show you something you really don't want to see. They exited the train at the next stop, and I watched as the last of the three "women" handed some portion of her earnings to every beggar she passed. Robyn Hood. Peppered into the aisle's mix are also an endless procession of chaiwallas, a monk-type selling useless noise-makers, coffee hawkers, and purveyors of all sorts of snacks. It's quite an affair. Everyone undertaking his daily business on the train for his daily naan.

When we were boarding the train in Delhi, a Chinese dude walked up to us to confirm that this was in fact the train for Agra.  And then once in Agra, he and his friend found us again and asked if we wanted to share an auto-rickshaw to the Taj. Why, yes. He and his buddy Andres discussed a few things (in SPANISH!) and off we went. Talk about psyched!

Now we could discuss things, what to pay, general feelings about India, what to tip, all of that escondido (read, hidden). So many people speak English here and stare at you such that you can only assume they're eavesdropping. Meanwhile, they can turn to each other and talk about you in Hindi, so it was relieving to be able to chat with no one else listening or understanding. Not that I have anything to hide. It's just comforting to be able to have a private conversation among the throngs of people.

The Taj Mahal is huge.  Gleaming white with pools

and gardens surrounding it, it is imposing and yet somehow subtle.  Flanked by buildings of red sandstone, the Taj hovers, even glows on the horizon. A hallucination.  The sky today was hazy.  We had a brief shower but clouds remained and the Taj seemed to float among them.

Katie brought her polaroid camera and took each of our photos.  As we walked toward it, we watched as the Taj emerged in front of our eyes, and then watched it come to life again in each of the polaroids. Built out of love, the Taj Mahal appears and presents itself in the same way, with a grace and subtlety all its own.  

While we weren't able to catch it at dawn or dusk as most recommend, I am thrilled to have witnessed another wonder of the world.

The remainder of our day was spent touring Agra.  Our driver gave the four of us, Katie, Yang, Andres and me a personal tour of their fort in town, and then pushed local artisanry on us. We visited a marble shop, a hand-sewn clothing and sari shop, and a silver shop.  We finished with lunch and some brews.

Our train back was delayed, as is apparently often the case in India.

So we opted to hop on Yang's and Andres' train. And then their train was delayed as well. "Dang, Yang!" was pretty much our tag line for the day.  So the four of us hung out and chatted while waiting.  We added a German girl into the mix as well, Suka from Hamburg.  Birds of a feather... Two hours later, all five of us boarded Yang's train, despite the fact that each of us ladies had a ticket for another train and train company.  When the conductor came to gather tickets, thankfully Andres flashed his, which proved enough evidence for the rest of us. Phew!

The poverty and the struggle one born with nothing has to overcome in India seems almost insurmountable. I cannot imagine a life of begging.

While waiting on the platform for the train, one girl, maybe seven, spotted the five of us and approached hand out, sad-faced. When her little sister (I assumed) came over to us as well, the older sister beat her away, pushing her to the ground. Half playful, half rebellious, the little one continued to approach us, suffering greater wrath from her sister. The last time the little one approached us, the elder chased her off for good, and returned to us hand extended. I looked at her square in the face and said, "If that's how you treat those you do know, how can you expect any kindness from strangers?"

Poop Sari!

Ever imagine what it's like to lead a group of eight women through the downtown streets of Old Delhi? Chaos doesn't even come close! I felt like a kindergartener again today, holding hands through the overpacked streets. Weaving like a snake through the crowds, I have no idea how we made it in and out alive. And all for some serious sari shopping! I have never experienced anything resembling what it's like to

shop for a sari. You and your crew walk into a storefront. Often ushered upstairs or into the back into a room with a padded floor, an entire room of fabrics is opened up to you and your mates. Every color in the spectrum, fabrics of all kinds and expenses unfold at your feet. Men come over to tie you into the saris with safety pins and velcro. It's just incredible. With the bride, obviously, the most important, the men took to Kristy first. Traditionally, brides in India wear red and are bejeweled, bedazzled and decorated with henna. There are two traditional styles of dress for women at weddings, a lehenga, a combination top and skirt, or a sari, one long piece of material that covers a petticoat and short blouse.  We visited three shops to knock out the wedding wear for six of us.  The bride, mother of the bride, sister of the bride, the groom's aunt, Katie, and me.  The bride chose a gorgeous lehenga, the rest of us saris. The mother of the bride's in particular has a sparkly leopard-like material. Meow!

The majority of us got our saris at a place called Roop Sari. The bag however, once folded seemed to read otherwise. Another good giggle for the gals. Oh, I almost forgot to mention betel nut!

Much like the cocoa leaves chewed at Machu Picchu, here in Indian people chew betel nut. Wrapped up in a leaf, you chew a mixture of the nut and other leaves. Used in Ayurvedic medicine, or just for a quick boost, it's clear who's chewing it. It turns your mouth and tongue bright red. Also thanks to Katie for this pic!

Gringa tax world-wide

Today I learned that the "gringa tax" also applies in India. Having run to the liquor store to grab a bottle of wine with the newest guests who arrived at Chinky's house today (the mother and sister of the bride), we learned that we had, apparently, gotten swindled. Back at the house with the bottle, everyone asked how much it cost. Paying $30 US for a bottle of wine?!? What!! Oops. I didn't know. Should have known.

So, I called Chinky who was at the market just down from the liquor store, and she said, "Yeah, bring it back. We'll have a good fight over it." Oh also, I neglected to mention that the four bottles of Kingfisher I had bought two days prior at the same liquor store, two of which I had already drank...? Yep, expired. Back in June! So I, turned right back around, met Chinky at the market, and we headed to the liquor store. She looked at me and said, "Roll up your sleeves..." and we stepped up to the counter. Turns out, they'd only overcharged us $5 US for the wine, but still. And they replaced the beers, apologizing, realizing their error and, worse, my humiliation and frustration. Note to self: look before you leap? Nope: bargain!  You'd think I'd have learned this lesson by now.

Back at the house for another lovely dinner, the house has filled with good energy and people.

Rukhein and Kristy, the bride and groom, Kristy's mother and sister, Rukhein's mother (Chinky) and sister (Ruhi), and Chinky's sister who lives in Little Rock (Minnie), we all having sat down and enjoyed butter chicken, ladyfingers (which is what they call okra), and dahl. Delightful. And don't let me forget Rushtam! The menacing puppy of the house. Everyone in India has dogs. According to Aunt Minnie, Minnie Bubby as she's called, cats are inauspicious. India is helping me to remember that people are people. And there are a lot of good ones in this world. Thankfully!

One for me, one for my homey

Jet lag sure has a hold on me here in India. I'm in bed by 10 pm and up by 4 am. I'm gonna have to start looking for early bird specials! Our morning breakfast consisted of an offering from an import/export friend of Chinky's. Nearing any Hindu holiday (in this case Diwali), it is custom to curry favor with the gods by sending offerings to, say, a hundred friends. Showing not only your generosity and fortune, but also your honor and respect of the gods. I am fortunate. Let me pay it forward to others, so that fortune shall continue to shine upon me.

Let's also discuss some of the preconceived notions of India. First, I was told that pretty much from the moment I stepped off the plane, the smells of Delhi would smack me in the face.

Maybe New York is dirtier than I have ever realized, but Delhi hasn't offended nearly as much as I expected. Then again, much like New York, I can only imagine what Delhi smells like in the summer, in 130 degree weather or more. Alas, it is winter. Only 90 degrees in the day and 70 at night. Women wear saris and punjabi dress in such beautiful colors with bindis on their foreheads. Some women wear full veils. Others are in jeans and long-sleeved t-shirts. Indeed, the full spectrum. Most do, however, cover their arms and legs, as is custom. It's interesting to note that you are welcome to expose a full belly in India, but nary a shoulder. A full belly indicates that you are rich enough to eat well, that, in a way, you enjoy some abundance in life, and don't skimp. While preparing for this trip, I packed no shorts or short skirts and worried about bringing leather goods. In a place where the cow is revered, will I offend if I'm wearing leather shoes? And my only good travel bag is leather. In the city at least, leather has yet to prove problematic, and is quite commonplace. Cities world-wide take all kinds.

On the other hand, three days in, plenty of things are a total shock. I have seen people of all sorts begging. Babies holding smaller starving babies. The maimed, the blind, all in need. Children selling useless balloons at major highway intersections, dirty, hair never having seen a comb, half-naked and barefoot. Along the highway, there will be a stretch of shops, furniture, bank, liquor store, and then a collapsed fifteen-story building. Pockets of huge single family homes flanked by business centers, and then three streets over slums.

In Chinky's neighborhood, there is an ironing lady on the corner. She loads charcoal into the iron and presses anyone in the neighborhood's clothes. Outdoors. I imagine that those who have live-in help, however, don't have to patron the ironing lady on the corner.And a man comes by on a bicycle rickshaw every morning to gather the trash for the neighborhood.

Pushpa, the live-in cook, resides in her own quarters upstairs on the roof/terrace. She has worked for Chinky for a year. There are two cleaning ladies for the house, and yesterday a repairman came to fix one of the geysers (pronounced geezer) which provides hot water in each of the five bathrooms. We have been encouraged to lock up important belongings, just in case. The floors in the house are all marble. Balconies extend off every room and screened-doors provide a great cross breeze. Each bedroom has a ceiling fan. Katie and I have our own room for now upstairs, and sleep on roll-out mats. We have our own bathroom and a sitting area.

There is a kitchen upstairs that we can use as well. The water in the house is all filtered. And for the majority, in-house meals are all vegetarian. I should also mention, this house is only a rental that Chinky has moved into while her home is undergoing major renovation. I feel so welcome here. So comfortable in a city where so many have warned me of its dangers. I don't know if it's because of my prior travels or the overwhelming generosity and care we've been shown that India has not yet been so shocking or unsettling. We, I suppose, shall see. And shout out to Chinky!

Old Delhi

I woke up this morning at 4 am and could not get back to sleep. Katie also suffered the same fate so we opted for some mindless television. The stations here show a variety of Indian shows, from music videos, old movies, and kids' shows, to crime dramas, cricket matches, and who would have guessed, Doogie Howser!?! Neil Patrick Harris...score! We did also enjoy an India mafia movie...

Awake for many hours after the sun came up, we finally got some slept, maybe 4 hours. At 10:30, we ordered a room service breakfast and organized our luggage for the recommended check-out. Once settled in at Chinky's,

she and Ram dropped us off at the Green Park Metro station with explicit instructions to see Old Delhi. The real hustle and bustle. A cow feeding in the street, surrounded by bicycle rickshaws, motorcycles, the occasional car, motorized rickshaws, the streets of Old Delhi are packed. Everyone, except the cow, fights and jockeys for a spot closer to the front. An Indian oil delivery man pedals on a bicycle in front of us with 8 huge canisters of oil behind him, often having to dismount to walk it through traffic jams. We paid a bicycle rickshaw 30 rupees to take us to the Red Fort,

a facility that was completed in 1648 had been actively used up until 2003 by Indian forces. Built in the traditional octagonal structure of the Moghuls, the site is full of artifacts of Indian wars, struggles, and ultimately Indian independence, and was named a UNESCO World Hetiage Site in 2007.  The architecture and intricate handiwork inside also represents the Moghul period showcasing Indian gems and stonework used in construction of the period.

The Red Fort seems to be the museum trip for local schoolchildren. I'm not sure how many people, children and adults alike, took our photos today. But Katie and I started fighting back, taking everyone else's photo to boot. When you show other people how ridiculous their behavior is by simply replicating it, you get to witness their half-humiliation, half-laughter at themselves. And more often than not, it prompts a conversation, a true interaction. With a bunch of school-girls, anyway, the moment Katie and I behaved exactly as they did, taking their pictures, gawking at them, they wanted to know why we were behaving that way and actually started talking to us. One girl wanted to know whose watch we thought was the cutest.

We are all curious. We all want to know what makes another different, maybe just to find that we're all the same.

Directly next to Red Fort is a huge bazaar with five ferris wheels. An unexpected juxtaposition of past and present, war and utter amusement.

At Chinky's recommendation, we also visited Paratha Wali Gali for lunch. Paratha is a deep fried bread or patty filled with your choice of yummies. While fresh foods and, of course, tap water are absolutely off limits in India, anything deep fried should be safe, right?

According to Chinky, if it's been deep fried, all the bacteria has been killed. So, they prep and cook the paratha on the street front and have small booths right behind the cooking in each "restaurant." You have to be sneaky, well, flat out pushy at times in Old Dehli. And be prepared for the occasional grope. Katie and I got seats, and ordered one carrot paratha and one potato. The paratha comes with a variety of dipping options.

Vegetables in a variety of sauces, peas, potatoes, and a few chilis on the side. Delicious. Before paying our check, I glimpsed a man behind a curtain squatting over a bucket of dark brown water washing dishes. He was wiping down the very same type of trays we had just eaten off of in that water. It looked like swamp water. Hmm. Disconcerting.

Against every single bicycle rickshaws suggestion and offer, after lunch Katie and I walked back to the metro station. One foot in the packed road, the other on the bustling sidewalk, we weaved in and out of shoppers and shop-keepers. "Silky things, scarves, punjabi dress, silks...?" This being my first encounter with Delhi, I wasn't sure what to expect, thus did not engage. After a half-hour metro ride back to the neighborhood, having reviewed our day with Chinky, she responded, "What awful tourists you are! You bought nothing?!?" Wink.

Ruhi's treat nights are Friday and Saturday. So she made a pizza for herself. We had green beans, dahl (so good), and chipati. Oh I also had two big Kingfishers...lites albeit. And fell asleep watching Cake Wars, a show I've never once watched States-side.

Qutb Minar

Delhi isn't totally unfamiliar. In fact, many of the smells are reminiscent. A combination of pollution, things burning, and spices reminds me of maybe Bangkok...or Quito...or New York in summer...? Familiar, nonetheless.

For our first tour of Delhi, Chinky sent us to Qutb Minar, a complex from Delhi's Mughal period dating back almost a milenium ago. The tallest building in Delhi at the time erected, this World Heritage site consists of gardens, a school, and still-functioning mosque. The tall spire at the center, constructed of red sandstone, has been struck by lightning on occasion and subsequently rebuilt.

We watched the sun set over a small hill. Close to the airport, we also watched as planes took off from Indira Gandhi International.

On a park bench, admiring the setting sun and atmosphere, two men walked up to Katie, one of whom handed her a baby.

Huh?!? We weren't sure if we should thank him or refuse such an offering. Without a word, though the men flanked us, while their wives approached and snapped photos. What is this? A foreigner family photo? Katie stared at the baby, laughing hysterically...who hands over their baby for a prop?? Only in India, I guess. Once the proper picture and moment had been captured, the man reclaimed his child, passed her back to his wife and off they went. For us, however, began a bloodletting. People had lined up to sit with us and take our photographs. You'd think we were celebrities! Nope, just foreigners, perfectly perched on a park bench. Man. We're going to have to start charging...

Strenuously warned about water, certain foods, and pollution, Delhi has yet to turn my stomach or senses. The infamous Delhi belly has yet to take root. Thankfully. Roadsides are packed with somewhat run-down strip malls, cows, random marble vendors with stacks of foot-square tiles, and rickshaws. You can buy anything along the road or even highway, simply pull over and park. And children and adults alike weave through traffic to sell you balloons, books, roses. On the highway. It is developing indeed. And the disparity between rich and poor is more than noticeable. On our way back from Qutb Minar, a girl of at most four tapped our window, moving hand to mouth as if for food, begging for money. She had nothing to sell. And no shoes.

Grounding

From the Delhi airport, we grabbed a metered taxi at the stand and headed for our hotel. And I, the apparently not as seasoned traveler as I'd like to thnk, neglected to take down the hotel's phone number upon printing our reservation details. An hour later, way past midnight, we arrived at an unmarked guesthouse. Our cabbie had no clue where we were staying, despite his prior affirmations that he did.

So, we drove and drove, finally getting someone on the phone who got us somewhere. I'm still unsure if that hotel was the one I did in fact book. The hotel's card lists the same name, but they apparently have a number of hotels in the city. The hotel is nice and clean, any confusion aside. We are staying in Gurgaon, a suburb of Delhi that has sprung up in the past 7 years or so, and is supposed to be close to our contact's house. A rooftop terrace looks out over trees. After a serious snooze, we got up about 10 in the morning, happy to have a place to sleep, and contacted Chinky,

mother of the groom and our lifeline in Delhi. She arrived shortly after at our hotel with her driver, and buzzed our room directly across from reception. I answered her call and heard her in reception. Chinky in stereo! As it turns out, her house is only 200 meters from our hotel. Talk about spittin' distance. So Chinky had the driver return, and we walked back to the house. For our first two nights stay, while it was tough getting there, the location couldn't have been better. We spent most of the day with Chinky, her daughter Ruhi, their puppy Rushtan, cook Pushpa, and driver Ram. The cook and driver don't speak much English. But boy does Chinky. She is a riot. She led us to the market, also walking distance, to book train tickets for the Taj Mahal, and to pick up SIM cards for local cell service. And, did I mention? She fed us. Serious deliciousness. And serious Indian hospitality.

Yes, yes!!

For about six months now, my friend Katie and I have been asking each other, "Hey...wanna go to India?!?" So today is the day!

Departing JFK at 4 pm, we touched down in Amsterdam at 6 am for a 5 hour layover. Smooth flight, slept a good bit. The train into Amsterdam from the airport takes twenty minutes. We threw our luggage into a locker and headed into the city.

Winding the streets of Amsterdam, we searched for anything open. Over canals, down alleys, pausing for bicyclists, we somehow ended up in the red light district. If we hadn't yet been tipped off by the glowing red bulbs, the Asian woman in the skimpy neon green dress peeking out of her bedroom window certainly proved a good, albeit shocking, indication. I turned the corner and looked in the window just as she peeped out, our eyes meeting in a serious stare. I didn't see her at all, and then did I ever.

We passed another room, window shades completely open to a bed and a sink. It seemed all too antiseptic. Aromantic. Which I guess is the point. Heading back to the station, we stumbled across Resin coffee shop. The girl behind the counter was fretting over the shop cat who had spent the night outdoors. Cats are nocturnal but it was pretty chilly. Not to worry.

The flight to Delhi was peppered with some turbulence but nothing too terrible. We watched the movie The Intouchables. What a great movie. Check it out. Afterward I put on Chocolat as it always puts me to sleep. Thank you, Juliet Binoche. Approaching the Delhi airport, Katie looked at me and said, "So, hey...wanna go to India??"

So what do you do when you haven't written on your blog in years, but have the urge to get back to it? Are you supposed to start a new one from scratch? Is all that has passed before, and perhaps the theme of the blog no longer relevant? Will anyone else even notice the rekindling?  Aw, who cares?!?

I jumped out of a plane yesterday! My second skydive in life.

And I have to admit the second was far more thrilling. While the first jump rated higher on the nerves, the second is pure adrenaline. None of the panic, no butterflies. You lean out of the opening, looking down at thousands of feet of air, smile, and jump. Into thin air.  Free. Falling.

We went to Skydive Long Island, and my tandem Instructor Max kept it real. We came out of the plane doing 360s to the left.  I'm not sure how many we did, but it was righteous! A bit of cloudiness cut the elevation to which we could climb by several thousand feet, which in turn shortens the freefall time.

Regardless, it was a blast. Highly recommended in my world.