tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53689059511750269152024-02-07T09:25:43.027-05:00eat your emeraldserinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.comBlogger154125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-22215832300127245182012-04-04T12:41:00.000-04:002012-04-04T12:41:58.603-04:00What's to do?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Someone asked me the other day: so what do you like do do? And really, so far, my favorite thing to do is sit around and watch the plants grow. Because, seriously, here's the view towards the barn one month ago:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_iOw-OcC1OeTl69iPQ3CtU-ceoccpoYI-7N4iGBL0kTyVzggcE2admPAb8g6J7FAtgP0re_LBG8CeECFEWwzaL3sWFMbdQTnw0OO-fDNhWuzGyM3AfK19pTg5Ml5TKNhAG-ZqkfFojN8/s1600/IMG_0162.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_iOw-OcC1OeTl69iPQ3CtU-ceoccpoYI-7N4iGBL0kTyVzggcE2admPAb8g6J7FAtgP0re_LBG8CeECFEWwzaL3sWFMbdQTnw0OO-fDNhWuzGyM3AfK19pTg5Ml5TKNhAG-ZqkfFojN8/s400/IMG_0162.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And here's the same view two days ago: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3HM_26TdMGUU7yf_slLkreWg3HkK4WtvmjZX4LjnjhZ35M8nVm8SguOF82hhYgg5pAeF7T2X8ABlVUEe1ADMgVzNtmw5xIO2rX81gvZut8xDOQK86iZ3TBT40orwzZNC5Mr1EylqbTmE/s1600/IMG_1813.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3HM_26TdMGUU7yf_slLkreWg3HkK4WtvmjZX4LjnjhZ35M8nVm8SguOF82hhYgg5pAeF7T2X8ABlVUEe1ADMgVzNtmw5xIO2rX81gvZut8xDOQK86iZ3TBT40orwzZNC5Mr1EylqbTmE/s640/IMG_1813.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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</div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-62608611466687741692012-04-03T17:55:00.000-04:002012-04-03T17:55:26.487-04:00Kentucky<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Wow, have I really not posted since I was in Kerala? That was a while ago. How about some pictures of Kentucky? <br />
<br />
Here's a sunset sky...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqd9acIhoJMc7gC2t2H0r4FKK0lafAQZRwYkoqxVnj4Q8gHrFyUQNfCXU5kYL3OS2ZQ-kKvKxYPIX5ILsZSXSWV6RCS-n-55LO7xXQF3xULpmuKzezAVHwI_zH0XyTiFqGagNQf_12uco/s1600/IMG_1793.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqd9acIhoJMc7gC2t2H0r4FKK0lafAQZRwYkoqxVnj4Q8gHrFyUQNfCXU5kYL3OS2ZQ-kKvKxYPIX5ILsZSXSWV6RCS-n-55LO7xXQF3xULpmuKzezAVHwI_zH0XyTiFqGagNQf_12uco/s400/IMG_1793.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
And a high renaissance sky...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKjitBniNsSR8epiEfEAVbAW93sqUUNCFXvIW32IBnyUnvWtlemciKM99CioO7Xpo4uTJmMEsOTLS9ebACScdV3eM2sYEaZRs71Xd7ToXApJjfsbPQ7LY_bX6uQXwarraElUHIwU4jfkQ/s1600/IMG_0176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKjitBniNsSR8epiEfEAVbAW93sqUUNCFXvIW32IBnyUnvWtlemciKM99CioO7Xpo4uTJmMEsOTLS9ebACScdV3eM2sYEaZRs71Xd7ToXApJjfsbPQ7LY_bX6uQXwarraElUHIwU4jfkQ/s400/IMG_0176.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
And a dogwood tree, in bloom...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVkYj2MYLK8BlqYWpc9v_Dosbxr9SIE1KhPHKrpWwiPd_kRQrfukkjMBTclUhC0EqjYXHp82nwn3OZqOkwlWtGeoazRPM0xv5sVoroapi4cgqzhXtWELDzwgnv_9XHw2W5aW8_SQN_-a0/s1600/IMG_1805.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVkYj2MYLK8BlqYWpc9v_Dosbxr9SIE1KhPHKrpWwiPd_kRQrfukkjMBTclUhC0EqjYXHp82nwn3OZqOkwlWtGeoazRPM0xv5sVoroapi4cgqzhXtWELDzwgnv_9XHw2W5aW8_SQN_-a0/s400/IMG_1805.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-13941934921092930942011-11-28T07:26:00.000-05:002011-11-28T07:26:53.261-05:00Kerala Backwaters<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So my last message - wherein I complained about booking a train ticket and the post office - was written from Fort Cochin, a former Portuguese colony on the south-western coast of India. It's right below Goa, which is where I am now (just overnight, on my way to Hampi).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Kerala has become a popular tourist destination because of the backwaters. I went on a one-day cruise and the pictures turned out so well it was painful to pick just a couple. It was seriously jaw-dropping scenery.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Otherwise, it was a pretty quiet stay. Kochi/Fort Cochin is a nice place to relax and chill out for a while. Lots of Western-style cafes, Western-style food, that sort of thing. Pasta salads, gaspacho. I found a place to get amazing banana cream pies and kept going back. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I also got an ayurvedic massage which was...<i>interesting</i>. Ayurvedic massage appears to be about oils and scents as much as anything else. Oils that remove toxins, maybe? All I know is that my massage consisted of lying down on a wooden table while two ladies rubbed oil all over me while wearing nothing but a tiny little loincloth. They started with my head, which was nice - a nice scalp rub, but with oil - but then moved onto my chest, which was weird. Hard to compartmentalize, shall I say? Because they weren't doing that sort of deep-tissue kneading that I associate with massage. They were just rubbing the oil around. It was a full body massage so they moved along to the different parts. Arms. Legs. Back. No room for prudery <i>at all</i>, but I admit that by the end I was pretty relaxed. I'd just come back from the train station, too, so that's no small feat.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The oil smelled a bit like tamarind. Somewhere along the way I've sampled a tamarind fruit straight from the tree and it has a sort of citrus bite that smelled right. But I'm not sure. After the massage I got into a steam box for fifteen minutes...which just reminded me of <i>I Love Lucy</i>. Anyone else remember that episode? Where Lucy gets into that weight-loss box that's supposed to steam away all her fat and then disasters ensue? That was weird too, though less so than the massage. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Ok, I'm going to go hunt down dinner before it's totally dark out.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhks_6K67Uqj3gf8HhPnA1dk3TPBWeZWr3MMMe4W3Zc9gPE397A0tZ3T4JGwxOPCLEmPZrLw3KhlkcC7CC6ForwcKT8hSbxMOXlhBjD-uO3q29PYLsaCVJKILvoomNpgC4ph_yi8DwAKBg/s1600/waterway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhks_6K67Uqj3gf8HhPnA1dk3TPBWeZWr3MMMe4W3Zc9gPE397A0tZ3T4JGwxOPCLEmPZrLw3KhlkcC7CC6ForwcKT8hSbxMOXlhBjD-uO3q29PYLsaCVJKILvoomNpgC4ph_yi8DwAKBg/s640/waterway.jpg" width="424" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilvlLrFfq9fUfUsgX8cC-w4pFbepTxmbkS9sdSUuSHNrplJ9P6cUflNsC_zMv7vMSilKMLv2FRUiaezaC9j-1rFkYp9Yduf3VGNE6AEHl2n_tshqVuEdMfHNQEBEY8x2ZsqPaR9QJiDq0/s1600/swan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilvlLrFfq9fUfUsgX8cC-w4pFbepTxmbkS9sdSUuSHNrplJ9P6cUflNsC_zMv7vMSilKMLv2FRUiaezaC9j-1rFkYp9Yduf3VGNE6AEHl2n_tshqVuEdMfHNQEBEY8x2ZsqPaR9QJiDq0/s400/swan.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixZ4WE4gN4TCHWs4QBVqOLPrUEwatABcw9-7shI-fAMM-65pG0fOSVd3rQzMtsgozt7bBMcoS0Scy5rF9RC0ycRyc1v2cuwCXMS4GwrNatgHi2mtc-LDLBkqxQg4EaxvxmMoSsHvXOueI/s1600/dudes+in+boat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixZ4WE4gN4TCHWs4QBVqOLPrUEwatABcw9-7shI-fAMM-65pG0fOSVd3rQzMtsgozt7bBMcoS0Scy5rF9RC0ycRyc1v2cuwCXMS4GwrNatgHi2mtc-LDLBkqxQg4EaxvxmMoSsHvXOueI/s400/dudes+in+boat.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZkbXvZHX4xkNeHs24WyUuXLl78wsyK7PdHuZLpUVvtvmKhUv4txrniHIoUNXqwPPWPTNdIVl8LHU84Yz7B2XIlOOOuhCTiNYnIRn1jmR0ku7Qd8YXd6YLobfb36GWsR4eqMXsYi1mBm8/s1600/fishing+kerala.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZkbXvZHX4xkNeHs24WyUuXLl78wsyK7PdHuZLpUVvtvmKhUv4txrniHIoUNXqwPPWPTNdIVl8LHU84Yz7B2XIlOOOuhCTiNYnIRn1jmR0ku7Qd8YXd6YLobfb36GWsR4eqMXsYi1mBm8/s400/fishing+kerala.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-84298213503261781032011-11-25T07:46:00.000-05:002011-11-25T07:46:26.108-05:00Argh.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Showed up at the Post Office yesterday. I had a big white box with a print I'm sending home and a small shopping bag. Waited for twenty minutes to get to the front of the line. <br />
<br />
The guy behind the counter looks at my box and my bag and says, "You can't send a box like that. You have to have it covered in white cloth." <br />
<br />
Me: "Ok. How do I do that?"<br />
Post Office Guy: "Take it to a tailor."<br />
Me: "What about this bag? Do you sell boxes?"<br />
Post Office Guy: "Yes. I'll go get one."<br />
<br />
...ten minutes pass...<br />
<br />
Post Office Guy: "We're out of boxes. Ask the tailor."<br />
<br />
I go to the tailor. They find a box. I put my small items in and wait half an hour for them to sew up the two boxes. They give me a marker and I add my address. I go back to the Post Office and wait in line for another twenty minutes.<br />
<br />
Me: "I'd like to send these two parcels, wrapped in white cloth."<br />
Post Office Guy: "Your 'from' address needs to be in India."<br />
Me: "I don't have an Indian address."<br />
Post Office Guy: "Do you have any Indian friends?"<br />
Me: "No."<br />
Post Office Guy: "Talk to that lady."<br />
Me: "Okay."<br />
That Lady: "Just put an Indian address."<br />
Me: "But I don't want these items returned to India if there is a problem."<br />
That Lady: "The rule is that the address is from India."<br />
<br />
I put the address of my hotel. I wait another twenty minutes in line. I send my parcels.<br />
<br />
That was yesterday. Today I tried to figure out how to get from here in Kochi to Hampi. I approached the receptionist at my hotel, which is also supposed to function as a travel agency.<br />
<br />
Me: "Can you help me book a ticket from here to Hampi?"<br />
Receptionist: "This month?"<br />
Me: "Yes."<br />
Receptionist: "There are no tickets. Go to the train station."<br />
<br />
Okay. I get into a rickshaw and go to the train station. I find the main ticket window at the station. I wait in line until I get to the teller.<br />
<br />
Me: "I would like to book a ticket to Hampi."<br />
Teller: "Talk to that other teller."<br />
Me: "Okay."<br />
<br />
I wait in line.<br />
<br />
Me: "I would like to book a ticket to Hampi."<br />
Other Teller: "Go to the reservation office across the street."<br />
Me: "Okay."<br />
<br />
I go to the reservation office across the street. I wait in line until I get to the teller.<br />
<br />
Me: "I would like to book a ticket to Hampi."<br />
New Teller: "You have to go to Bangalore first."<br />
Me: "Okay."<br />
New Teller: "What date?"<br />
Me: "As soon as you can get me into an AC car."<br />
<br />
The teller searched around on her computer.<br />
<br />
New Teller: "You can go on the 30th."<br />
Me: "Okay. Now what about going from Bangalore to Hampi?"<br />
New Teller: "Go find a reservation form. They're at window number nine."<br />
Me: "Okay."<br />
<br />
I go to window number nine. I get a reservation form. I fill out my personal info and wait in line again.<br />
<br />
Me: "Here's my form."<br />
New Teller: "You didn't fill it out."<br />
Me: "I need your help to know which trains I want, and which dates. I thought you said I could get a seat to Bangalore on the 30th."<br />
<br />
The teller searched around in her computer for a bit.<br />
<br />
New Teller: "Yes, Bangalore on the 30th."<br />
Me: "So what about going from Bangalore to Hampi?"<br />
New Teller: "Go talk to the people at the inquiry office."<br />
Me: "Why do I have to go talk to the people at the inquiry office?"<br />
<br />
The teller shrugged and stopped answering my questions. This is a skill anyone who is in India picks up (I do it to rickshaw drivers and shopkeepers all the time. They say, "Just look!" and I pretend I didn't hear). So I go to the inquiry office. Guess what comes next? Guess. No. Really. Guess. This is an easy one. I waited in line for a while.<br />
<br />
Me: "I need to go from here to Hampi."<br />
Inquiry Office Guy: "There are no tickets."<br />
Me: "Ever?"<br />
Inquiry Office Guy: "No tickets."<br />
Me: "There must be tickets available at some point. When's the soonest I can go?"<br />
Inquiry Office Guy: "You can buy a waiting list ticket."<br />
Me: "Waiting list tickets are worthless. I want a confirmed seat."<br />
Inquiry Office Guy: "No tickets."<br />
<br />
At this point, all the other people waiting in line jumped into the conversation. They babbled on for a while saying things that I did not understand. <br />
<br />
Guy Behind Me In Line: "You need to talk to the teller at the main station."<br />
Me: "I have already been there. They sent me here."<br />
Guy Behind Me In Line: "You should talk to the teller at the ticket window."<br />
Me: "She sent me to this guy."<br />
<br />
Further discussion with the Inquiry Office Guy ensues.<br />
<br />
Guy Behind Me In Line: "You should go to the next office over, to talk to the area manager."<br />
Me: "There's another office?"<br />
GBMIL: "Yes, I'll show you."<br />
<br />
We go to the next office over. We find a room where a bunch of people all listen to GBMIL explain that I need to get a train and then finally a lady says to me:<br />
<br />
Lady: "You should come back tomorrow."<br />
Me: "Tomorrow?"<br />
Lady: "Take your chance tomorrow. Then if you don't get a ticket, the morning after that."<br />
Me: "I don't want to keep coming to the train station every morning. I'd like to know how to get a confirmed ticket to Hampi."<br />
<br />
More consultation. <br />
<br />
Dude: "Well, we can't get you a confirmed ticket, but if you buy a not-confirmed ticket we promise that tomorrow we'll make it a confirmed ticket."<br />
Me: "To Hampi?"<br />
Dude: "No, to Bangalore."<br />
Me: "But I'm going to Hampi."<br />
Dude: "We can't help you with that ticket. We can only help you with a ticket to Bangalore. You'd have to get off the train and go find someone else to help you there."<br />
<br />
I imagined repeating the rigamarole I'd just been through in Bangalore and started thinking to myself that there had to be a better way. A bus maybe. I don't know. Anything. So I left the train station and took a rickshaw back to the tourist part of town. I went to about ten different travel agencies. All of them with big signs in their windows saying, "TRAIN! BUS! CAR! FLIGHT!" I said, "I need to get to Hampi," to each one. They all replied, "Take the train." I said, "There are no tickets. Is there another way?" They all said, "No."<br />
<br />
At that point I went to lie down for a while. I'd had enough. Tomorrow I'm going to see what else I can think of. I need to get out of here and apparently that's going to be hard. It's stuff like this that keeps people on the beaten path...try to step away from it and the hassles multiply so fast. Hampi isn't even that far off the beaten path. Far enough though. <br />
<br />
Seriously. India needs to buy more trains. <br />
<br />
</div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-48243299924152580162011-11-17T04:28:00.000-05:002011-11-17T04:28:14.236-05:00A Shimmer of Bubbles<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">I've just come back from a week on the Andaman Islands - all of which I spent on Havelock Island, where the best scuba diving in India is to be found. These islands are far off the eastern coast of India, sort of equadistant from India and Thailand, and they're more or less little tropical paradises. I don't know if you can see in this picture, but there are hundreds of purple trumpet flowers blooming in in the carpet of greenery bordering that white powdery beach, next to the clear turquoise sea:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsmuibp7TxX23K6skcbEZEQ6n98NFjhyvClow-8nzvI8WDQZQB62XDofYPyOd7lMl2JPawWvoCzJ-r3wYni_XhAzuE34xA4gvoDlJHbHjQ_3Fg79uSwdHDV8GAQzNaCrZHEpO-LUeZcLY/s1600/beach+and+trumpet+flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsmuibp7TxX23K6skcbEZEQ6n98NFjhyvClow-8nzvI8WDQZQB62XDofYPyOd7lMl2JPawWvoCzJ-r3wYni_XhAzuE34xA4gvoDlJHbHjQ_3Fg79uSwdHDV8GAQzNaCrZHEpO-LUeZcLY/s400/beach+and+trumpet+flowers.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But I spent most of my time under the water, like this: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijfSxkkdSAt7F6fhub4ghNYeePk9fY8sblqwM35Fw-PH_FF91nlRgELIpjmHwYttwuAjVX0JNu31Qtmho3awCrEIe2D7wliOTcn1z2ihC15e8_aJa2xafyFktXCR1wwgCQf4Imy-k8LmQ/s1600/me+in+scuba+gear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijfSxkkdSAt7F6fhub4ghNYeePk9fY8sblqwM35Fw-PH_FF91nlRgELIpjmHwYttwuAjVX0JNu31Qtmho3awCrEIe2D7wliOTcn1z2ihC15e8_aJa2xafyFktXCR1wwgCQf4Imy-k8LmQ/s400/me+in+scuba+gear.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Scuba diving. The first day I did a refresher course, since I've only done a handful of dives and none in the past few years, in shallow water that looked like a coral graveyard - all the coral gray and shattered, the whole landscape colorless. Apparently about a year and a half there was a massive, two-month-long heat wave during the hottest months of the year. All the divemasters had left the islands, closing up shop during the low season, and when they came back the coral was dead. Two months of unbroken heat had warmed the ocean enough to kill it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I didn't want to spend a week staring at dead coral so I did the Advanced Open Water course, which dook me immediately down into the deeper waters, up to 100 feet, where the water had stayed cool during the heat wave and there was plenty to see. Like this, from Dixon's Point:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYvOW3i87iWBK-1LdUHLlVZV7X0CQn9AykLRahVSFYbu5dr2Is8bY-YuJKlbPINJ7sdr5JTsKbVl3ZA3EPbqsmOlPSJE-b8jyaC-pW0MHDf1M8CUPfjzdXyljqjwB1MVnewaSLlGLk9kk/s1600/fish+and+coral.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYvOW3i87iWBK-1LdUHLlVZV7X0CQn9AykLRahVSFYbu5dr2Is8bY-YuJKlbPINJ7sdr5JTsKbVl3ZA3EPbqsmOlPSJE-b8jyaC-pW0MHDf1M8CUPfjzdXyljqjwB1MVnewaSLlGLk9kk/s400/fish+and+coral.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Or this school of Moorish Idols: </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlvNXDDq-Nl9JRi-yUAe2TcLFvSdjBhh3mHttcKeT241HYcUXmpVYaaHhluApe4AqY8IUlCy4zkYM30WCedBNfRpQhEH2fSdZJlbMdYuNOKuoCeDLp7OfrEZgESWFy6TVxxD0Lpw-PVKM/s1600/moorish+idols.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlvNXDDq-Nl9JRi-yUAe2TcLFvSdjBhh3mHttcKeT241HYcUXmpVYaaHhluApe4AqY8IUlCy4zkYM30WCedBNfRpQhEH2fSdZJlbMdYuNOKuoCeDLp7OfrEZgESWFy6TVxxD0Lpw-PVKM/s400/moorish+idols.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Or how about this lionfish: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtNBEgVBHR9rPbvLbSy-Q4b2JJ69tTrdAdPUa56w7CcVjqXLF8jwZ9tOXHvrcY_qpVvUnFFpWu33EMf0N53iq8-sua5xkryGPZuaAvfsCuchMJInCCy8LwaznfoOk_QQOQjfZZV3lq6lM/s1600/lionfish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtNBEgVBHR9rPbvLbSy-Q4b2JJ69tTrdAdPUa56w7CcVjqXLF8jwZ9tOXHvrcY_qpVvUnFFpWu33EMf0N53iq8-sua5xkryGPZuaAvfsCuchMJInCCy8LwaznfoOk_QQOQjfZZV3lq6lM/s400/lionfish.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div> After each dive, we'd sit down and list the fish we'd saw in our logbooks and it would fill a whole page, and we'd still not even begin to cover what we'd seen. Huge schools of barracuda. Giant moray eels. We swam up to one poking his head out into the water, little tiny orange fish swimming in and out of his open mouth. Seven foot long white-tipped sharks, which we chased around the sea floor for about ten minutes. Angelfish, anemonefish, butterflyfish, pipefish...pustular varicose slugs and harlequin shrimp. Fans of purple coral. We'd be swimming in the middle of five or six schools of fish at any given moment. It was amazing.<br />
<br />
I spent five days diving. The dive days went like this: wake up at six in the morning, eat breakfast, tug on a wetsuit and get on a boat sometime around seven am. Take the boat out into the blue blue water, sea spray on either side and wind in our hair, for half an hour, an hour, until we arrived at the dive site. Put on the rest of the scuba gear, which is clunky and heavy. Jump in the water. We tended to have pretty strong currents so the descent and ascent were always the hardest part, stretched out like little underwater supermen while holding onto an anchor line and pulling ourselves down foot by foot. Then we'd get far enough down for the current to die off and we'd have fifteen, twenty minutes to really look around and enjoy the sights before we had to ascend again. <br />
<br />
Another hour in the boat, to get rid of all the nitrogen we'd built up from the first dive, and then we'd go down for the second. Same deal as before. At the end of it, despite the fact that we'd mostly been sitting around on a boat and like, flipping our fins every second or two, we'd all be exhausted. I usually went to bed at eight or eight-thirty, too tired to talk or see straight. <br />
<br />
I did one night dive but there was strong current at the site and it was a shallow dive, so there wasn't a whole lot to see. Sea snakes and crabs. Well. One gigantic hermit crab that filled a whole conch shell, which was kind of cool, and the terror of it was interesting. A lot of people are very calm about these things but I had to force myself into the pitch-dark water with only a single flashlight to see by. On the way up, near the surface, the three of us turned our flashlights off and waved our fins, making all the plankton flouresce, little firefly glows, which almost made up for the fact that they were stinging plankton and I have little red lashes all over my arms and legs from swimming past them. <br />
<br />
Havelock Island also boasts a beach that's in the running for "most beautiful beach in Asia" and I spent my one day above water there. It was pretty nice, I admit:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifryys-e8NIlOVqpq3_boLqIBoIOXnvpzhONqkt_KTf8kDUYZ4NMIfFSrCjo_gEnqSLdAE9_MY5AEClKns86wciiBZ0KtiHUgWmS2nkU824d6lnD9QcN46_wgFaryhHLqwwJ4SfQj7GGM/s1600/sunset+on+the+beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifryys-e8NIlOVqpq3_boLqIBoIOXnvpzhONqkt_KTf8kDUYZ4NMIfFSrCjo_gEnqSLdAE9_MY5AEClKns86wciiBZ0KtiHUgWmS2nkU824d6lnD9QcN46_wgFaryhHLqwwJ4SfQj7GGM/s400/sunset+on+the+beach.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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</div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-18882167896795134312011-11-08T21:24:00.000-05:002011-11-08T21:24:24.577-05:00stupid red tape<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I'm at the Calcutta International Airport. It looks kind of like a small regional airport in a town you've never heard of. I'm going to the Andaman Islands, so I have to fly, and I admit I'd begun looking forward to my flight as an isolated incident of luxury travel against a sea of more or less inconvenient train rides. <br />
<br />
I will never, ever let my expectations run away with me like that again.<br />
<br />
My flight leaves at 8:30am. I'm paranoid, so I arrived at the airport at around 5:45am (it's no coincidence that I'm cranky - third day in a row that I've had to get up early for the sake of onward travel). Indians seem to be even more afraid of terrorism than Americans, probably because they have more incidents than we do, and like Americans they've responded with a whole lot of mostly ridiculous red tape.<br />
<br />
Example number one: I have a multiple-entry visa but I can't leave the country. If I cross the border into any other country (I'd hoped to visit Nepal), I have to wait two months before I re-enter India. No thanks. <br />
<br />
Example number two: I showed up at the airport to check-in only to be told by a gun-toting soldier at the sliding glass entry doors that I couldn't enter the airport without a printed ticket. The GoAir ticket counter sits inside these glass doors, thus, I couldn't go check-in to get a printout or ticket. I booted up my computer and used my USB dongle to call up the e-ticket I'd been sent via email but the soldiers all said no, no, that didn't count. Upon further questioning it became clear that if I could print out the screen I was showing them, it would count. But just looking at my email wouldn't suffice.<br />
<br />
So I asked around more and discovered that the domestic terminal of the airport has an internet cafe, where I could call up my ticket and print it out. I hike all the way to the domestic terminal, where I find out that the same security measures that kept me out of the international terminal remain in place: I can't get in without a printed ticket. However, says the new gun-toting soldier, I could go buy a visitor's pass, and that would let me in. <br />
<br />
So I find the "airport manager's" office, where I pay 30 rupees (about $0.75) for a visitor's pass. This is not striking me as fancy security but I don't care, I just want to get a printout of my ticket before my plane takes off. <br />
<br />
I roll my luggage back to the main entry and show the soldier my pass. He nods but then tells me that I can't bring my luggage inside the airport. This is annoying but, at this point, more logical than any of the other hassles I've had to deal with. I start to chain my luggage to a guard rail when a pair of soldiers approach and tell me that I can't leave my luggage outside. I have to give it to someone. I point out that I'm alone and have nobody to give my luggage to and they shrug. <br />
<br />
I go back to the airport manager's office and talk to the woman who sold me the visitor's pass. I look, at that point, like I'm about to panic and the woman is very kind. She gets up, goes to the main entryway, and convinces the soldiers to let me inside with my luggage. I feel equal amounts of gratitude and frustration: I am pleased for myself and the increased likelihood of catching my flight; I am displeased by the fact that their security measures are so flimsy. If there's one thing worse than inconveniencing lots of people for a good reason, it would be inconveniencing lots of people for no reason.<br />
<br />
I print out my ticket. The exact same page that I showed the first gun-toting soldier. I wheel my way out of the domestic terminal back to the international terminal. I show the gun-toting soldier my printout. He waves me through (he does not, by the way, have to collect the printouts). I check in. <br />
<br />
I haven't even gotten on the plane yet, people. I still have to get to the Andaman Islands, get some sort of a permit on arrival (it's a restricted territory), and then find and take a government ferry to Havelock Island. I am not looking forward to the rest of the day.<br />
<br />
A quick coda: After checking in, I had plenty of time to spare (that's the upside of being paranoid) and I wanted to grab a coffee. There's one chain of stores here called "Cafe Coffee Day" that brews a decent espresso and I saw one in front of the domestic terminal. But when I try to leave the airport, I can't. The gun-toting soldiers won't let me. No going in and out. <br />
<br />
I say I just want to go grab a coffee and come back, and they reply that I should try the coffee shop deeper in the international section of the airport, past immigration. I say, "Oh, ok," and get in line, only to remember my first example of stupid red tape: if I leave the country, I can't get back in. Given everything I know of India, walking upstairs to get a cup of coffee would count as leaving the country and I'd be stuck, my trip brought to a premature end. I decided I didn't need breakfast that badly.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-1281225249648477912011-11-07T00:03:00.000-05:002011-11-07T00:03:06.648-05:00Khajuraho<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Khajuraho is probably my favorite of the places I've visited in India. It was clean, peaceful, and the temples - famous for their erotic carvings - are well-tended and more exquisite than I had expected, a true feast for the eyes. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I took pictures of some sculptures for their sheer brazen raciness, but these were my favorite scenes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZL6rgzGhFzhKSKk36SkCUE8JwdcJdYaMXi5erxOW6xiIWp2vWuACAtj7PG7Pc89KyDMazPTMtAvLhEpytRRzaHJXXWTO0XE-rf0Uyhi9Jq5Ga4Z9qrTrf-Llh-749rprONVROXDa_eHU/s1600/back+view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZL6rgzGhFzhKSKk36SkCUE8JwdcJdYaMXi5erxOW6xiIWp2vWuACAtj7PG7Pc89KyDMazPTMtAvLhEpytRRzaHJXXWTO0XE-rf0Uyhi9Jq5Ga4Z9qrTrf-Llh-749rprONVROXDa_eHU/s640/back+view.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNSdo0pxrK9to3R7VSjw3ZAG7Z07-NMGYsj1hy6X5uH5IXU1l13AQscGPQno3jW5bsE1A3ZoMxSWdYHY4Rym9BkKf9vi4JbuHoqN3bfj__ftZXrnbm1E7h_dfqY_VU2e4loq7-MIIFOPE/s1600/couple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNSdo0pxrK9to3R7VSjw3ZAG7Z07-NMGYsj1hy6X5uH5IXU1l13AQscGPQno3jW5bsE1A3ZoMxSWdYHY4Rym9BkKf9vi4JbuHoqN3bfj__ftZXrnbm1E7h_dfqY_VU2e4loq7-MIIFOPE/s640/couple.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZjXrNdi8iJk3hKZ4S2Nyhg3iA1rtJ2bYLYlipUv0-cExqVLXwQti-pe9FvvZeG1FY2tC_7cEn8rDmV5LIyqM_U8TY9BmAjxf0MnynJSyIAIrx0CIvSuMPJ7_xLXcoTJWnQCdhyKbrbSU/s1600/light+and+shadow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZjXrNdi8iJk3hKZ4S2Nyhg3iA1rtJ2bYLYlipUv0-cExqVLXwQti-pe9FvvZeG1FY2tC_7cEn8rDmV5LIyqM_U8TY9BmAjxf0MnynJSyIAIrx0CIvSuMPJ7_xLXcoTJWnQCdhyKbrbSU/s640/light+and+shadow.jpg" width="424" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWLom9HDFpVKuTqagefALSjPDSHIgHyJ43UcVeNf-mlXZvE3-TLXlkf1kWF9XlE_oRhUSkhOD9toqxQXf1RQJXoR1WXJzNG_VSsf2TBtmBuUrJNHYvzr2h8RKTyGJj_trdvR-aFsJMntg/s1600/looking+up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWLom9HDFpVKuTqagefALSjPDSHIgHyJ43UcVeNf-mlXZvE3-TLXlkf1kWF9XlE_oRhUSkhOD9toqxQXf1RQJXoR1WXJzNG_VSsf2TBtmBuUrJNHYvzr2h8RKTyGJj_trdvR-aFsJMntg/s640/looking+up.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8pmuMhPT3O581McXH5e7h2zo_74JJbI_sDYBtz2qbc1GdHm6CYT9-rnf-mKHiL2eZaSDUzb1qi9-VWn0KrpuYZXinmt3bmqsBzRp-EBfbpjL9QGdquZmHdUPY-fEEOlTCA6FwdqfvfrE/s1600/sole+exam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8pmuMhPT3O581McXH5e7h2zo_74JJbI_sDYBtz2qbc1GdHm6CYT9-rnf-mKHiL2eZaSDUzb1qi9-VWn0KrpuYZXinmt3bmqsBzRp-EBfbpjL9QGdquZmHdUPY-fEEOlTCA6FwdqfvfrE/s640/sole+exam.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br />
</div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-57410614626238752012011-11-06T03:42:00.001-05:002011-11-06T04:54:55.707-05:00Orchha<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Just pictures this time. I spent three days in Orchha - a little one-road town between Gwalior and Khajuraho, sleepy and charming and full of tourists. Plugged my earbuds in and wandered around, which was a lot of fun, and spent a whole day sitting by the river reading. I wondered at the time if that was the best way to spend a whole day here, but, in retrospect, it absolutely was. The only downside were the two guys who sat on a rail across from me for several hours, trying to peek up my skirt, but they did give up and go away eventually.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD93xJeqNEdE0hmoVP8PECQVEmuovOTRhC555cutsoisM8-E-omKBm1m3-49qipcuj08TaRXT0Y5977_kbhDUzMGrRC8u3wd4CjmW1vHI2gkzskB6QSvPYKw1ty6lCrorEuKm_6IvEzMU/s1600/courtyard+fort.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD93xJeqNEdE0hmoVP8PECQVEmuovOTRhC555cutsoisM8-E-omKBm1m3-49qipcuj08TaRXT0Y5977_kbhDUzMGrRC8u3wd4CjmW1vHI2gkzskB6QSvPYKw1ty6lCrorEuKm_6IvEzMU/s640/courtyard+fort.jpg" width="424" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG6I2CVnYtJzjgRK4yBBLq09dnMZwltbgZhSAywcKL8GAUiR2AI2uJiGehDPc_iRPVP4nip9Y-7QZXBW_oh-159DAhKhjPFY9tLd5_rFmEdaA4ciU40_Oa5SFHhLiMfiuN-ZGyZMC0_Ks/s1600/fort+and+temple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG6I2CVnYtJzjgRK4yBBLq09dnMZwltbgZhSAywcKL8GAUiR2AI2uJiGehDPc_iRPVP4nip9Y-7QZXBW_oh-159DAhKhjPFY9tLd5_rFmEdaA4ciU40_Oa5SFHhLiMfiuN-ZGyZMC0_Ks/s400/fort+and+temple.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6hYNyfDnXiDMx2dp_4xkaO-N4zg2XzOuG1LsqQzaC_xkU05u8p4S3PhWgzhSAu0CG9KXb0r74KGxofwJZ_CH1f21ZZR_RwtgWLK9BlhHVIuls1aJSP9OUlbS6SJ9Q5xieybYjRj-veBI/s1600/guru+guy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6hYNyfDnXiDMx2dp_4xkaO-N4zg2XzOuG1LsqQzaC_xkU05u8p4S3PhWgzhSAu0CG9KXb0r74KGxofwJZ_CH1f21ZZR_RwtgWLK9BlhHVIuls1aJSP9OUlbS6SJ9Q5xieybYjRj-veBI/s400/guru+guy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi53NwXYdFXjZJJzEQwdk3adoi8tEkrWFIvljgKo15XwABQOQE7uIubBMkAesLf8ZGHielM-Yt48jDPSQxCDie9DThgC2pWQntJ-ZYQo8_yVuXmQDLakVEs27igG5mhnuyB56y07jXmRj8/s1600/lauging+lady.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi53NwXYdFXjZJJzEQwdk3adoi8tEkrWFIvljgKo15XwABQOQE7uIubBMkAesLf8ZGHielM-Yt48jDPSQxCDie9DThgC2pWQntJ-ZYQo8_yVuXmQDLakVEs27igG5mhnuyB56y07jXmRj8/s400/lauging+lady.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtVJYJq1-_9P54yf7E9Fgm3yEnWrR8hSIM69UvNKi_vhJKLnyAFuMLbQg42xKSuEfIq1td6MsInp1xraXMesuLw4febfVK8v2YyUtwrGQGX37Xsgqzie888FYVo5FWGAhyyUQQJduTKv4/s1600/parrot+and+bush.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtVJYJq1-_9P54yf7E9Fgm3yEnWrR8hSIM69UvNKi_vhJKLnyAFuMLbQg42xKSuEfIq1td6MsInp1xraXMesuLw4febfVK8v2YyUtwrGQGX37Xsgqzie888FYVo5FWGAhyyUQQJduTKv4/s640/parrot+and+bush.jpg" width="424" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> I have since learned, at my vist to the Darjeeling zoo, that this is an Alexandrine parakeet. I also saw (and took pictures of) the much rarer white vulture which inhabits the fort.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnzh3IxZaV8Ph9b1CIdaUmiWP6lctoUzNUSyQNNubcTciLRNS8a5RtrnBH1fC6oyvUt0ThpbWx3kxDmqFydIaKsaP0zLUATlDtWG4i4ASJHfgRzrrVFGW6H7NMowgp0QwCIqxWTOJNId0/s1600/sleeping+dogs+lie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnzh3IxZaV8Ph9b1CIdaUmiWP6lctoUzNUSyQNNubcTciLRNS8a5RtrnBH1fC6oyvUt0ThpbWx3kxDmqFydIaKsaP0zLUATlDtWG4i4ASJHfgRzrrVFGW6H7NMowgp0QwCIqxWTOJNId0/s640/sleeping+dogs+lie.jpg" width="425" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwhx6bo1GtOnHCaOWai4gW1Fsww4JN0wgcNW6pWpwxjjttoAZ42-7hcvTxaLJQP3OJC_cmucsE1Q-1U6zB4JsdSKGQ_dCvkoNQR_gwSPMh5HtGSYKnQtNA84zJ6Sb-2RGg0jWoqyMGmNw/s1600/temples+and+river.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwhx6bo1GtOnHCaOWai4gW1Fsww4JN0wgcNW6pWpwxjjttoAZ42-7hcvTxaLJQP3OJC_cmucsE1Q-1U6zB4JsdSKGQ_dCvkoNQR_gwSPMh5HtGSYKnQtNA84zJ6Sb-2RGg0jWoqyMGmNw/s400/temples+and+river.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-84986919196433396892011-11-01T05:42:00.002-04:002011-11-01T05:50:08.083-04:00Trains<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">If there is one thing I have learned about the Indian rail system, it's this: book in advance. The country is densely gridded with tracks, but there aren't nearly as many trains as there are people wanting to get on them. <br />
<br />
My first trip took me between Delhi and Gwalior. I bought a waitlisted ticket, 11 on the list, and actually got a seat. I've since realized that most waitlisted tickets aren't worth the paper that they're printed on. And it was in 1st class ("AC class"), so I had a whole berth to myself in a nice quiet car. I really had no idea how lucky I was.<br />
<br />
I took a short hop on the unreserved seats between Orchha and Khajuraho. Those are the cars you see in movies sometimes, with twenty faces bobbing at every open, barred window and five or six people crammed into the little vestibule, probably standing on a sack of onions. I'd attached myself to a pair of French tourists that I've since crossed paths with in Varanasi and Darjeeling, and we found an ally who bullied the other passengers into making room for us. For a short, three hour trip, it wasn't so bad.<br />
<br />
For a long, twelve-hour trip, however, it was torture. Because I tried to book a train between Khajuraho and Varanasi and, after my earlier experience, took a chance with a waitlisted ticket. It was cancelled, there were no seats in any of the other cars, and I ended up in the unreserved cars again. Alone this time. I made half the journey in the "family" car, with women and children who were pretty nice, actually. One of the women moved her baby from where it spawled on the seat so I could sit down, and if I was surrounded by twelve people in a space meant to hold six, well, at least they were nice, polite people. But then I had to transfer in Allahabad and I got into a general seating car where I sat clutching my purse, surrounded by men, feeling prickly and uncomfortable for four more hours. I didn't eat or drink the whole time, from sunup past sundown, and the whole experience was pretty hellish.<br />
<br />
After that, I decided I'd learned my lesson. I went back to the station at Varanasi the next morning and booked as many onward tickets as I could. When I arrived at the station for my trip to Darjeeling I was feeling pretty smug about it, too, thinking that I'd get on a 9pm train, have a nice sleep in my 3AC berth, and wake up in time to freshen up before the train rolled to a stop in New Jalpaiguri, from where I'd have to catch a shared jeep the remaining distance north to Darjeeling.<br />
<br />
So, naturally, the train was late. Not just my train, either. The whole station filled up with people who laid out blankets and filled up the main booking hall and every waiting area, sleeping and chatting away the hours. I'd see people tucked against walls, blanketed from head to toes, looking like corpses. At first the enquiry agents made some attempt to keep everyone posted about the delays, but eventually it got late and they abandoned their posts. <br />
<br />
I hooked up with a few other tourists so we could all pool information. We settled down in the first class waiting room, which was definitely the nicest place to wait in the station, but that wasn't saying much. It was pretty grubby, attached to a pair of bathrooms that sent out a nice reek every time anyone opened the door - the sink was broken, so no water, and actually, one of the bathrooms wasn't so much a bathroom as a shower that had been rather <i>sloppily </i>converted to its present use - and a pair of rats that would peek out into the waiting room every minute or two through a convenient notch in the bottom of the bathroom door. They'd creep into the room, someone would wave something or slap their feet against the floor to send the rats scurrying in another direction, and the process would repeat with until the rats retreated to the bathroom to regroup for their next attempt. <br />
<br />
I spent six hours in that room. <br />
<br />
I've been keeping pretty early hours - traveling alone, as a woman, I'd be unwise to dive into the nightlife - so as the clock crept toward midnight I was having a hard time keeping my eyes open. A couple of the other tourists fell asleep but a few of us had to remain awake because the only updates we were getting about the trains were through overhead announcements, tinny and hard to understand. The only thing any of us could ever really decipher from these announcements were the train numbers, a series of four or five digits, and so we had to keep one ear on this constant staticky babble, listening for numbers amidst a stream of indecipherable words, waiting to recognize the code that meant our train was about to arrive. <br />
<br />
As a final note about the Mughal Sarai train station: all of the ads on the walls were for undershirts. So if I were, say, trotting between the waiting room and the enquiry office I'd see the rats, then these pictures of men in wifebeaters, one brand after another, then hundreds of people all asleep in the main hall, then this board telling me my train had been delayed yet again.<br />
<br />
So yeah. The train finally arrived at two-thirty in the morning. It racked up a few extra hours of delay en route and dropped us in New Jalpaiguri at 8pm instead of 1:30. We stumbled into Siliguri and had to pay through the nose to get a pair of teenagers - literally, they were both under 18 - to drive us up the steep, twisting roads, in the dark, to Darjeeling. <br />
<br />
I spent all of yesterday recovering. Today too, to be honest. Luckily, the weather here is bad, cloudy and rainy. On a clear day, there are points nearby from where you can see Everest. Until the weather changes, though, I'm not missing anything. As far as I can tell, there are no mountains here at all. Just fog.</div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-80605917935412007892011-10-27T11:51:00.002-04:002011-10-27T11:59:32.598-04:00Varanasi (I am a scaredy cat)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1eaqFnnmTNc7c8aq7G98OzAA7yZwHnatHKtrcBzNB7UZRx2nbvRi5Gto2hyphenhyphenY847z0L6arUci-YVr0gdYb-h1ojbtAp48vx1ciQRXvb-uB8FEKd-I-BJqBhEkbY0RWQyOZK-FO1JGpCV4/s1600/varanasi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1eaqFnnmTNc7c8aq7G98OzAA7yZwHnatHKtrcBzNB7UZRx2nbvRi5Gto2hyphenhyphenY847z0L6arUci-YVr0gdYb-h1ojbtAp48vx1ciQRXvb-uB8FEKd-I-BJqBhEkbY0RWQyOZK-FO1JGpCV4/s400/varanasi.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
I had the craziest day today. I wanted to catch up with Orchha and Khajuraho before moving on to Varanasi - both Orchha and Khajuraho are lovely, lovely places - but I need to write this down before I forget it, because I think I just about ran the gamut of human emotions today. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio7dkGUDGIzOalqaLxw0PPDW8p51H5sazrntgQ8t9JRUdzozF3EQU5L_fhN6ch9HSoxcOeEXeY6HGz2mP_JumtE5p-R46klzTPqJ12luiWqQiWiXLBcX4gnwLcl8pfoKzibTfHCST_44c/s1600/sunrise+and+candles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio7dkGUDGIzOalqaLxw0PPDW8p51H5sazrntgQ8t9JRUdzozF3EQU5L_fhN6ch9HSoxcOeEXeY6HGz2mP_JumtE5p-R46klzTPqJ12luiWqQiWiXLBcX4gnwLcl8pfoKzibTfHCST_44c/s400/sunrise+and+candles.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I woke up at dawn to take a boat ride on the Ganges, up and down the ghats. That's the number one tourist activity here. Take a look at the photos and you can see why. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjdHr6ylUTgpoFG69qE4KRPQEtynzEz3MQy0h4KnP7Z5LbRwOb08Ncfo966ylekCP_5_bdZqPxg37xwjRSpfDjivcGBeig_O5quoRFh9puvd5_ZzmkKvTiSgYG8bdR91u1HJAFs3puAws/s1600/sunrise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjdHr6ylUTgpoFG69qE4KRPQEtynzEz3MQy0h4KnP7Z5LbRwOb08Ncfo966ylekCP_5_bdZqPxg37xwjRSpfDjivcGBeig_O5quoRFh9puvd5_ZzmkKvTiSgYG8bdR91u1HJAFs3puAws/s400/sunrise.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Everything about this city batters at the senses. There are some scenes, like the ones above, that are peaceful and surreal. Others, like the one at the top, that hint at the city's battered grandeur. And then there's the chaos...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifOp1pD1NO9dB2TTjD9ODknyp9ZDkGuhvnudzrymeI7ngZudXqLAeA52T5VGyP-sEoHXhE_aWl1J5evyXbXTXCjxl5Tq4IRW6kjCYxtUuVQtpeTEF3C5Lq_eT1VOPjF51fw_GEDkwNpN0/s1600/bathing+ghat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifOp1pD1NO9dB2TTjD9ODknyp9ZDkGuhvnudzrymeI7ngZudXqLAeA52T5VGyP-sEoHXhE_aWl1J5evyXbXTXCjxl5Tq4IRW6kjCYxtUuVQtpeTEF3C5Lq_eT1VOPjF51fw_GEDkwNpN0/s400/bathing+ghat.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
And the filth...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCK_QPb1prnzKeKGdwHB26FleujVfiY5B5PJsXuFvHna-liAhmQPxdIfmzo-aA7sabPiuSLVbbSpNjEvdfDKVHCcckUo5YkKojpJ7sM9JmGCjw8PMcJeEue8eR65RqpnCwy7KeFOtpl1M/s1600/filth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCK_QPb1prnzKeKGdwHB26FleujVfiY5B5PJsXuFvHna-liAhmQPxdIfmzo-aA7sabPiuSLVbbSpNjEvdfDKVHCcckUo5YkKojpJ7sM9JmGCjw8PMcJeEue8eR65RqpnCwy7KeFOtpl1M/s400/filth.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
And yes, that is a boy with a kite in the foreground. Because the image wasn't heartbreaking enough without a boy and a kite, was it? <br />
<br />
Also, please imagine brushing your teeth with that water. Because that happens. You're welcome. <br />
<br />
You know what else I saw? A dead baby. Varanasi is all about death. Apparently the belief is that people who die here ascend straight to the Hindu equivalent of heaven, so people come here to die. Most of the people who die here are cremated on the ghats. But some - including children, pregnant women, lepers, holy men, and people who die from snakebite - are wrapped in their shrouds and given to the river whole. Today I saw a family rowing a shrouded little baby out into the river.<br />
<br />
We rowed past the burning ghats as well, where the bodies are burnt. What struck me, drifting by and later on foot, wasn't the pyres. It was the gigantic piles of wood. Huge piles of wood, several stories high, surround the steps where the bodies are burnt on all sides and in stacks down the street. Because there are today's bodies, and tomorrow's, and the day after tomorrow's...and they'll all need wood to burn.<br />
<br />
So after my sunrise boat excursion, I did a few more touristy things. I went to the train station to book some onward tickets. I went to a cafe/shop to buy some gifts. And then I decided I'd finish off the day by walking the ghats from end to end, or, at least, as far as I could go before my feet started hurting. I did that too, and it was nice, more battering of the senses. Here's another photo from the walk:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS4TIKF979VtNvviOjV3ZXg8QiQOTYIWZ0YKmJyK1k_btdeDcCAEoXgVSVHFLHi6jtF2Yabm6cCwUu6zsoVueV_f0oarOxJQ_HEwh_njlNx41TOf_2sBwp3IJ6tektZg2ay5TSiVz3QJg/s1600/look+cows.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS4TIKF979VtNvviOjV3ZXg8QiQOTYIWZ0YKmJyK1k_btdeDcCAEoXgVSVHFLHi6jtF2Yabm6cCwUu6zsoVueV_f0oarOxJQ_HEwh_njlNx41TOf_2sBwp3IJ6tektZg2ay5TSiVz3QJg/s400/look+cows.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Kind of more of the same, right? Boats, misty city, people bathing, but this time with cows! Speaking of the cows, they were kind of uppity today. That was the first odd thing. I've seen so many cows over the past month and they're always so placid. They stand around nosing through the trash or chomping on weeds, maybe lying in the middle of the road. Up until today, the cows I saw were mostly stationary. Sometimes they ambled. I didn't hear one moo until today, when all the cows woke up and started acting lively: trotting, grunting, and, in one case, charging. These things have horns! They are gigantic! It's scary when a cow trots your way. <br />
<br />
So I get to the end of the ghats and I decided I'd walk back to my hotel a different way, via the streets. But the streets are narrow and winding and I lost my sense of direction pretty quickly. That's when the dogs attacked. <br />
<br />
I have been repeatedly amazed by how sweet-natured the street dogs here are. They're more polite than most of the dogs I see in the states who have owners and some training. It's gotten to the point where I don't notice the street dogs, or, when I do, I just feel sort of happy and sympathetic towards them. But rabies is common in India and when I turned down an alley and three dogs started barking and chasing me, I remembered the lay of the land right quick. I was backing away and using my purse as a barrier and seeing my life flash in front of my eyes when some random stranger stepped in to call the dogs off. (Just to be clear: none of them touched me, not even a little bit, or else this would be a very different story). <br />
<br />
I was light-headed for about half an hour after that. Rabies is terrifying and I was terrified. So I was sort of getting lost and the sun was heading towards the western horizon and I was light-headed with terror. I tried asking a few people which way to the ghats, thinking at least I'd get my sense of direction back if I could find the river, but I just wound deeper into this warren of streets. The women and children vanished as it got darker. Instead, these aggressive young men zoomed up and down the little alleyways on motorbikes, hooting and hollering and going way, <i>way</i> too fast. One biker clipped my camera, another jeered when I had to leap to get out of his way and barely saved my toes from a crushing. <br />
<br />
Finally I emptied out on an actual, car-carrying asphalt road. I was tired and kind of miserable so I nabbed the first rickshaw I saw. It was a cycle rickshaw, which was already bad news - perching behind a guy on a bicycle while he plays chicken with a bunch of cars is not fun. But, really, I wanted to go back to tourist land. I wanted hotels and restaurants and cheap jewelry stores and chai shops. <br />
<br />
Instead, the rickshaw driver drove me right into the middle of a parade. With people in fuzzy red hats and a band and lots of angry cops who all yelled at him and made him turn around. So the poor driver is trying to turn around while half-a-dozen people shout at him and then someone let off a really, really loud firecracker. I screamed and clapped my hands over my ears, the rickshaw driver took off, and we careened into a horde of those testosterone-crazed motorcyclists that I'd been dodging on foot for the past hour, all of them wearing identical orange turbans. Hundreds of them. <br />
<br />
At that point I just ducked and covered my face. I didn't want to know what would happen next.<br />
<br />
But all that happened is that the rickshaw driver plowed his way through amidst much catcalling. The first few roads he tried were all blocked, thanks to the parade, and jammed up with confused drivers, and periodically trails of those orange-turbaned motorcyclists would force their way through, all of them howling. Once we got onto free-flowing roads there were long long lines of people all waiting for...something...going on for ten or twelve blocks, and police cars all over. <br />
<br />
Eventually the rickshaw driver dropped me back in tourist land and then, because I was a terrified puddle of spineless goo, bulled me into paying him WAY too much (by which I mean, I paid him $2 when I should have paid him $0.50). I found a nice, quiet place to have dinner and that was that. <br />
<br />
Let's see how long it takes me before I decide to wander off an explore a new city on foot again, hmm? Might be a while.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-83680336501182603522011-10-23T12:16:00.004-04:002011-10-23T14:25:19.490-04:00Gwalior<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I got down from the mountains with one priority: go someplace warm. I'd originally intended to hang around up north for a while, making my way east through the mountains, but the way things work at the budget hotels around here you get like, one blanket on a thin hard mattress and that wasn't going to erase my memory of chattering the night away with icy feet in the Himalayas.<br />
<br />
There's also a sort of general consensus that the far-north cities are "over". I met a girl in Dharamsala who said she'd originally gone to Leh - a city even farther to the north, at a higher altitude, with more dramatic mountains - who left because Leh was "over." And then, when I was in Manali, a lot of the shopkeepers and restauranteurs all said that they were only going to stay open for a few more days, because Manali was about to be "over". More than one of them put it like this: "Now that Goa has started, Manali is over."<br />
<div><br />
I thought this was pretty hilarious - <i>this town is over</i>! - but it's just a fact of the changing seasons: the northern hill stations are most popular when the weather down south is unbearably hot. Now that the south is cooling down and winter is on its way to the mountains, the tourist season is winding down. </div><div><br />
</div><div>So I decided to make my way to Khajuraho. In order to do that, I took another all night bus south - my third all night bus, ugh - to Delhi, where I spent a few unpleasant hours in the massive, hectic New Delhi train station before catching a train to Gwalior. I get pretty nervous when I'm moving from place to place because I know I'm at my most vulnerable, carrying all my valuables, weighted down, slow and uncertain. I got harassed a bit in the train station but the worst moment came towards the end, after I'd been wandering up and down the track for twenty minutes trying to figure out where my car would be once my train rolled into the station. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I ran into a pair of British girls who were in the car right next to mine, so I decided to stick close to them. But they had just arrived in the country and hadn't yet learned that it doesn't always pay to be friendly here. This old dude, dressed in white with a big old beard and a toothy smile, started chatting up the British girls. And they chatted back, cheerful and laughing and hand-gesturing all over the place. This attracted attention, which is to say it attracted a crowd of male onlookers. They surrounded us three deep, to the point where the British girls finally started to get nervous. I'd been reading in my Kindle but I looked up, shooed all the men away (literally: I waved at them and said SHOO) and then abandoned the British girls, because that was not my idea of fun.<br />
<br />
Anyhow. The train was calm and pleasant. I had a hard time figuring out where we were stopping and the other passengers in my car were really nice. They noticed how nervous I got every time the train slowed down and finally they were like, "We'll tell you when we get to Gwalior! We promise!" And then they were like, "Ok, Gwalior in three stops," "Gwalior in two stops," "Get ready, it's the next stop." So that was nice.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I stayed in Gwalior long enough to rest up, see a couple of the major sights, and move on. The city has a big hill fort, most of which is underground and infested by bats. Thousands and thousands of bats. It's a magnificent structure that has become very creepy and very, very smelly. </div><div><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfhhh7ydtAFTXiq3z6ApG0oz14WNQd6PEN61gUrIloMDmyuJd8wj7Jikddcvv6OikV0kPJ7yDMHA-9UCeAvK8Ai8NfHJnuKVld-l_ENsGNpun-Io9Rf1AvVnAtZus32LC5a9ojmp9PCUk/s1600/swing+room.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfhhh7ydtAFTXiq3z6ApG0oz14WNQd6PEN61gUrIloMDmyuJd8wj7Jikddcvv6OikV0kPJ7yDMHA-9UCeAvK8Ai8NfHJnuKVld-l_ENsGNpun-Io9Rf1AvVnAtZus32LC5a9ojmp9PCUk/s400/swing+room.jpg" width="400" /></a>For example. Check out the photo on the left. Once upon a time, it was a sumptuously decorated chamber where the maharajah's many wives whiled away the afternoons on swings that hung between those thick pillars. Later, the room was converted into a prison and the hooks for the swings were used to string up prisoners. Guess which use the room seems better suited to today?<br />
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The above-ground parts of the fort were easier to appreciate. <br />
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Here's a temple...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj05fGZrbMhahgRUUrprtAyIeyo9fCiy2zyfxJBPYZNqsibYaFbdT73_XNA_vqoaHEFgG1CDbi24fALWqGsWoru89M8kUueZfAZWOAhnWRvtzmYGy9do3p7FTDk4_G71XEAqhpRHg4fNzI/s1600/flowers+and+shrine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj05fGZrbMhahgRUUrprtAyIeyo9fCiy2zyfxJBPYZNqsibYaFbdT73_XNA_vqoaHEFgG1CDbi24fALWqGsWoru89M8kUueZfAZWOAhnWRvtzmYGy9do3p7FTDk4_G71XEAqhpRHg4fNzI/s400/flowers+and+shrine.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br />
Some goats eating offerings at a shrine:<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBTn8NI2rObIlJQYntF5Ibn6IDviLsEs8ODfO7h9ik9lWfUt2IBXIBiXKAa6PY9V9JRmzmT3oVsYq3uvoMff5Sum6BM5cFbK88L2Pz52qxH6QPNUjI5c8_4bjc_VHikT5ltO33R6ZvnN0/s1600/goats+eating+offerings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBTn8NI2rObIlJQYntF5Ibn6IDviLsEs8ODfO7h9ik9lWfUt2IBXIBiXKAa6PY9V9JRmzmT3oVsYq3uvoMff5Sum6BM5cFbK88L2Pz52qxH6QPNUjI5c8_4bjc_VHikT5ltO33R6ZvnN0/s400/goats+eating+offerings.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Me on one of the balconies, overlooking a small palace:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinV2_LB9J7RIz-lCz08_lf3WFscuy0CXKEjFBqHMuSrh_tUL0fTq9FCmuD-zJ33WperbThtKwvhz8GcQXDVU6lnTKa747z5EOHGpnO_jqSjHBKZGj_87pmxEasD4c0h2uF9AgdTlqoWHk/s1600/me+on+the+balcony.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinV2_LB9J7RIz-lCz08_lf3WFscuy0CXKEjFBqHMuSrh_tUL0fTq9FCmuD-zJ33WperbThtKwvhz8GcQXDVU6lnTKa747z5EOHGpnO_jqSjHBKZGj_87pmxEasD4c0h2uF9AgdTlqoWHk/s400/me+on+the+balcony.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br />
My other stop in Gwalior was the Jai Vilas Palace, basically a glorified storage facility for the family that owns it. The "exhibits" are just things they don't use anymore, like a big baby stroller shaped like a swan, or a table and chair set carved of wood that's too heavy to use but too valuable to throw away. My favorite thing was a miniature choo-choo train they'd laid out in their massive dining hall that carried bottles of champagne up and down the table. Here's a picture of the biggest attraction, an assembly hall that contains two three-ton chandeliers! And the largest hand-woven rug in Asia! Cuz bigger is better! <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgozSayyGe4wgO65V6H5tKlEPKTaL4o2W-WrFGiBubZoDCpANgL0QP9M-cI72aR3wZAGweEuk2AVuimt2uQ1m4oUC_5Q6dGL7qYxCmuKHGRjXPk_hHWd4AeOY4LJlpex22BrPFhMGCLX0A/s1600/jai+vilas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgozSayyGe4wgO65V6H5tKlEPKTaL4o2W-WrFGiBubZoDCpANgL0QP9M-cI72aR3wZAGweEuk2AVuimt2uQ1m4oUC_5Q6dGL7qYxCmuKHGRjXPk_hHWd4AeOY4LJlpex22BrPFhMGCLX0A/s400/jai+vilas.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
I found the place about as wonderfully absurd as I'd hoped to, but I'm pretty sure that's not the effect the family is really going for by opening their home up as a "museum"<br />
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</div><div>I think I'll save Orchha and Khajuraho (my favorite place in India so far) for later. </div></div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-56496092170652195792011-10-17T09:34:00.000-04:002011-10-17T09:34:34.120-04:00Trekking<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">So I signed onto a three-day trek through the Himalayas, circling around the small city of Manali. I didn't ask too many questions before setting off, which was a mistake - I didn't realize, for example, that the plan was, "For two days you will hike up a really steep mountain, and then in one day you will hike all the way back down the really steep mountain." No flat terrain in sight; my calves are still killing me. <br />
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Here are some pictures from the first day, on the way up:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlsjzGWDxKpfSH75bZjL6DhpByAOPIXOZ4PWWhBRCoiXpstLeL-dkRhfwcp8i94IzfqLgMIDaktkxkl7UnXBjpG-OjchWfm3c7ulbdo5DEGvJRZb0mqfgFyZtXpp4Y6BQySTcWXSXAgQU/s1600/trekkingone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlsjzGWDxKpfSH75bZjL6DhpByAOPIXOZ4PWWhBRCoiXpstLeL-dkRhfwcp8i94IzfqLgMIDaktkxkl7UnXBjpG-OjchWfm3c7ulbdo5DEGvJRZb0mqfgFyZtXpp4Y6BQySTcWXSXAgQU/s400/trekkingone.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJRIo-QQDQJ88FZuoabioXY3lkLiNKyCJpCtDG-dy2FW1sgtBZQWfIPy6eHtrZB7zmGE1LcPP9dIr_z3XDZMfzquA5ZRjyxZfKDiE-_yNrLK0V80xlaN9CEuzktQjChQOnJV9gWcgVEig/s1600/trekking5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJRIo-QQDQJ88FZuoabioXY3lkLiNKyCJpCtDG-dy2FW1sgtBZQWfIPy6eHtrZB7zmGE1LcPP9dIr_z3XDZMfzquA5ZRjyxZfKDiE-_yNrLK0V80xlaN9CEuzktQjChQOnJV9gWcgVEig/s400/trekking5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw2T1q_ui04UKqNkBQj7zOTcxeHHmTd711RMiz7n_X9lwnbPy67hGFrrzFWaPT9DDz1NSrF07CHXTpotqgqj40zEviHXjQ4_xCoc9dDunU6JcsYC5VZQAV3N-iROGgo6Mc6AGzxdf3zwk/s1600/trekking2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw2T1q_ui04UKqNkBQj7zOTcxeHHmTd711RMiz7n_X9lwnbPy67hGFrrzFWaPT9DDz1NSrF07CHXTpotqgqj40zEviHXjQ4_xCoc9dDunU6JcsYC5VZQAV3N-iROGgo6Mc6AGzxdf3zwk/s400/trekking2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We camped at around 14,000 feet altitude, both nights. It was pretty warm during the day (you can see my wearing a t-shirt above), but got cold fast. Insanely cold. We had porters and horses carrying all the heavy stuff, but had to set up our own tents and such. The porters laid out a tarp and then tossed a dozen sleeping bags on it and said, "Two each!" and we were all like, "What? Two sleeping bags? Who needs two sleeping bags?"<br />
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I could have used three.</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I went to bed that night with one sleeping bag tucked into the other, wearing a full set of long underwear, wool socks, and a thick fleece, but I was still too cold to sleep. I just lay there all night with my teeth chattering, waiting for the sun to come up again. </div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Here's that camp: </div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6-ypp2wdetaPOWXc37aGPIEqUqdIfZJYSmJ0oX6KdVW6pyXas5CF_VCjI_issI0dp6So8HnGuyXuaQEX4C3kG4AhpGxLyqycNxlQrRrrqObWXbkd8B1eBgwl_o-oIa-OnKWSdVcZPmyk/s1600/trekking3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6-ypp2wdetaPOWXc37aGPIEqUqdIfZJYSmJ0oX6KdVW6pyXas5CF_VCjI_issI0dp6So8HnGuyXuaQEX4C3kG4AhpGxLyqycNxlQrRrrqObWXbkd8B1eBgwl_o-oIa-OnKWSdVcZPmyk/s400/trekking3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Day two was more uphill, but with the addition of scary shale slopes. Honestly, if we hadn't been a day in, I probably would have turned around here because, seriously, this is not a trail:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx-HchPFHXbb4FxuMLS6A5Oshzf9IFaMLOnZkW8u8nrfVLoeeC5jbRhmg86YGY62Ld2nGAH25Bh-qEISIlAeSxGfaNeQ4yr1xOmwbxCLK_i5URUswDQhSvKZYlcLYobeYz9DhR9RFpuIU/s1600/this+is+not+a+trail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx-HchPFHXbb4FxuMLS6A5Oshzf9IFaMLOnZkW8u8nrfVLoeeC5jbRhmg86YGY62Ld2nGAH25Bh-qEISIlAeSxGfaNeQ4yr1xOmwbxCLK_i5URUswDQhSvKZYlcLYobeYz9DhR9RFpuIU/s400/this+is+not+a+trail.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
It's a rock slide waiting to happen. I crawled through most of this terrain at a snail's pace, irritating the other hikers, but I was terrified. At one point I sat down next to one of our guides. I think his name was Mani but we all called him Money; he was a cool little Nepalese kid who wore killer white sunglasses and, get this, <i>sandals at night</i>. He was that hardcore. Anyhow. I said, "This looks like a rock slide waiting to happen," and he said, "Yeah, we get a lot of avalanches here." <br />
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Grrreeat.<br />
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Here's our camp for the second night:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfE3UodEOuAm_y_4HzFKAXS4Czy1uyPvrYhUYE_Hif8-21_F0wDcqfL6GBCoDLeX3l1iEcy2P2nsTLnnHStrBZ1qSo1DHydk8_8qPqQCHqx_xxjk_TwmVvhodm2nn5OyuOj9RCbRHPPM4/s1600/trekkingseven.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfE3UodEOuAm_y_4HzFKAXS4Czy1uyPvrYhUYE_Hif8-21_F0wDcqfL6GBCoDLeX3l1iEcy2P2nsTLnnHStrBZ1qSo1DHydk8_8qPqQCHqx_xxjk_TwmVvhodm2nn5OyuOj9RCbRHPPM4/s400/trekkingseven.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And some of the wonderful views from Camp #2: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg99G_OT608CNifbDXHRVDO2_Q5NwFSB1hGG9VHxWt8XtLF8ORErZ5JAdIP4Or_BXFhog9LWFssvgnwn-4NcUPZYr2CRMgfuZS_jGSz9Vo8C1UeQ_jK5rgaJ_nEdjmppFc3G6vuajmez58/s1600/trekking8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg99G_OT608CNifbDXHRVDO2_Q5NwFSB1hGG9VHxWt8XtLF8ORErZ5JAdIP4Or_BXFhog9LWFssvgnwn-4NcUPZYr2CRMgfuZS_jGSz9Vo8C1UeQ_jK5rgaJ_nEdjmppFc3G6vuajmez58/s400/trekking8.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLBIls5_HppzrA0nU42VpbP6dFd_6Gqvs5dsVQD_PzO1-DSegDqEzYng928jfU-OBef7eUxVQM41nL_h43XJGFXHSm6XGjEhZ5_6VrfnKq1sditeG2Atep9Kbgkzoy8hLBsdhvR7S-L24/s1600/trekkingsix.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLBIls5_HppzrA0nU42VpbP6dFd_6Gqvs5dsVQD_PzO1-DSegDqEzYng928jfU-OBef7eUxVQM41nL_h43XJGFXHSm6XGjEhZ5_6VrfnKq1sditeG2Atep9Kbgkzoy8hLBsdhvR7S-L24/s400/trekkingsix.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgliNM6zCKsoybPO2RiUu0w18A2-l0x58g2H64N_b8Ebz8zEVr9nPLI1kGhAhE7znL_Ktk7omtVNs0BTjzuIeSR2YXiDjH12JCySNpwGupGCkQ8cuChEvhUFfJQtD_TR_PCz7BlUW70gnM/s1600/mountains+beyond+mountains.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgliNM6zCKsoybPO2RiUu0w18A2-l0x58g2H64N_b8Ebz8zEVr9nPLI1kGhAhE7znL_Ktk7omtVNs0BTjzuIeSR2YXiDjH12JCySNpwGupGCkQ8cuChEvhUFfJQtD_TR_PCz7BlUW70gnM/s400/mountains+beyond+mountains.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Bizarrely enough the third day - the downhill - was the worst. I didn't get winded the way I did on the uphill slopes, but that contributed to the problem. I just forced my muscles to carry my legs forward long after they were shot, trying to keep up with the other hikers. I admit to being the slowest person on the trek in general; there was a fifty-eight year old Spaniard who could have run circles around me. <br />
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Anyhow, the point is, the downhill was really steep and we had to descend at a rapid pace. By the time we reached the finale, the village of Vashisht, my knees were killing me. Imagine going down a really steep set of stairs, with half the steps taller than is comfortable, for five hours straight and you might get an idea of how I felt. I hobbled around like an old lady for days.<br />
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But no regrets. I saw some seriously beautiful scenery, and I tested myself. Both good things.</div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-85545419041630586962011-10-07T11:07:00.000-04:002011-10-07T11:07:28.563-04:00Manali<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>683</o:Words> <o:Characters>3897</o:Characters> <o:Company>Evol Inc</o:Company> <o:Lines>32</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>9</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>4571</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>14.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>JA</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> <w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/> <w:OverrideTableStyleHps/> <w:UseFELayout/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormal">Today I hiked down Old Manali’s single, half-paved road to the bridge over the river that separates the old and new parts of the city.<span> </span>Going uphill again, I passed a park full of the tall trees that cloak the hills in these parts – massive pine trees that give the whole area the look of a fantasy movie, a landscape subtly stretched beyond the limits of reality.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was headed for the shops.<span> </span>I figured that was about all I could handle with my cold. Manali is in the far north, tucked into the Himalayas, and known for its woolen goods.<span> </span>I ended up buying a pashmina shawl for my mom, cornflower blue and light as though it had been woven from cotton candy or spiderwebs, and – for half the price – a silk and pashmina shawl for myself.<span> </span>Mine is a mellow Bordeaux color, so thin and soft my fingers feel rough and uncouth by comparison whenever I touch it, but I draped it around my shoulders anyhow.<span> </span>The slide of cloth against my neck is delicious, and as the weather cooled and rain threatened during the afternoon, it kept me pretty warm.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I started back towards my hotel, more energetic than I’d expected to feel after hoofing it all that way.<span> </span>I ended up stopping at one of the town’s fancier cafes for a salad and a tall glass of plum-ginger juice. Salad and ice cubes are dangerous for travelers, but look at the picture and tell me you wouldn’t have succumbed (the apples are local):<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQPIx5-mp4X8fH200XCUJgGHCXVo6dqXADhTtcNS2qjhc3XtyosgCRajTBXhjcT3TlJ17jx_tbqxvgkoATvvDH7fmXoVF93MqLlixuQeRBbFUjEmoS6XBpjEHukhqjYzzMxyfCvIvYUjY/s1600/salad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQPIx5-mp4X8fH200XCUJgGHCXVo6dqXADhTtcNS2qjhc3XtyosgCRajTBXhjcT3TlJ17jx_tbqxvgkoATvvDH7fmXoVF93MqLlixuQeRBbFUjEmoS6XBpjEHukhqjYzzMxyfCvIvYUjY/s400/salad.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Manali is a prime honeymoon destination for Indians, and when you’re sitting in a beautiful garden with a bright green lawn surrounded by full-blown roses while snow-capped mountains loom in the distance, it’s easy to understand why.<span> </span>The contrast is magical. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD0-r4MAc3W25SVhREwF2DknnLAGkaheAbMNRetp7_YT5GNX_vujcPMQmB1P5ymW4wTipjG7ZxQwWgfOwnaAO7nbbrzCoNxbNmoVlg1W7_gQBupI2ZO5kbS2LnGHFztRdBsq8_VrYg9sg/s1600/garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD0-r4MAc3W25SVhREwF2DknnLAGkaheAbMNRetp7_YT5GNX_vujcPMQmB1P5ymW4wTipjG7ZxQwWgfOwnaAO7nbbrzCoNxbNmoVlg1W7_gQBupI2ZO5kbS2LnGHFztRdBsq8_VrYg9sg/s400/garden.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Fortified by lunch, I detoured up to the Hadimba temple.<span> </span>It’s a seventeenth century temple dedicated to the goddess Hadimba – don’t ask me to explain who she is – and my visit there was nothing I would have predicted.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The building itself is plain, a pagoda shape constructed of dark wooden beams and white plaster, its roof clad in timber shingles.<span> </span>At first, the only ornamentation I could see were the ring of antlers fastened just under the overhanging roof.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A long line of people snaked out from the doorway, so I did a circuit of the temple before deciding if I wanted to get in line myself.<span> </span>Pollen rained down from the trees, turning the air green.<span> </span>Halfway around a pack of young men stopped me and asked if I’d take a picture with them.<span> </span>This has happened to me surprisingly often since I arrived in India; I got through months in Morocco and Egypt without ever feeling very weird about being white, or blonde, but it’s impossible here.<span> </span>Once I agreed to take a picture with the young men a whole bunch of other people approached me.<span> </span>I ended up standing around while little crowd swirled around me, people taking turns standing at my side and mugging for the camera – including a lawyer from Calcutta, who insisted that I converse in turn with each of his three children, two daughters and a son, to practice their English before they gathered around me for a big family photo.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Next to a temple!<span> </span>A sixteenth century temple!<span> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Finally I got in line, made my way up to the front and clambered through the small door into a dark, almost empty space thick with smoke from an open fire.<span> </span>The devout crept down a small ramp to a little shrine, laid down their offerings, and left.<span> </span>I couldn’t tell if the shrine contained anything of note; I just saw the candles and the rupee bills and a sort of dark carved rock.<span> </span>I stepped aside, uneasy about getting any closer.<span> </span>I didn’t feel like I’d come to a tourist destination at all, and I didn’t want to intrude any further.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This cute little dog followed me home from the temple.<span> </span>I’ve seen street dogs everywhere I go.<span> </span>They tend to be starving and scruffy and at night they’ll bark and howl and fight.<span> </span>Some of them are injured.<span> </span>Some of them are tiny, adorable little puppies.<span> </span>In any case, India has the highest incidence of rabies infection in the world and I avoid them…until this adorable creature followed me down the hill.<span> </span>Pale and scruffy like all the others, but what manners!<span> </span>It walked at my heel for almost two miles, stopped when I stopped, sat and waited patiently with me when I hugged walls or signposts while cars zoomed past.<span> </span>I’d started to formulate a plan, thinking I’d find a vet, find out if the dog had rabies, get it a bunch of vaccinations, name it Kiddo and find a way to bring it home with me when it saw a pair of tourists walking by in the opposite direction and started tagging after them instead of me.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment--></div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-435053726760524012011-10-06T09:38:00.000-04:002011-10-06T09:38:38.221-04:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb3JvlJ2eSjkS2syRXm3zvfmO6BZIq7YS_EvXmcZhr0LaMaDHX7M3QUpw6HnyeDyBcd3dO3kw92wBr6xqza_TZ0IQPoZhjX2hs66Evl46WdMlWrtc0Si1z8XSSjAlrfBgL4AwtiRWgJjE/s1600/lemon+ginger+honey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb3JvlJ2eSjkS2syRXm3zvfmO6BZIq7YS_EvXmcZhr0LaMaDHX7M3QUpw6HnyeDyBcd3dO3kw92wBr6xqza_TZ0IQPoZhjX2hs66Evl46WdMlWrtc0Si1z8XSSjAlrfBgL4AwtiRWgJjE/s320/lemon+ginger+honey.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
See that? Three layers: bottom layer honey, middle layer strips of ginger, top layer hot water with lemon juice squeezed in. With a teabag on the side.<br />
<br />
I've had about five of those today.<br />
<br />
I decided to move east from Dharamsala/McLeod-Ganj to Manali last night. Easy enough to do: I booked a ticket on the bus leaving that evening, packed up and checked out of my hotel, and voila. The bus left early and the drivers sped over the bumpy roads, tipping and tilting the bus around each hairpin turn. It was horrible. I heard something electronic crunch about a quarter of the way through and spent the rest of the trip clutching my purse and cursing the driver. At one point another passenger was literally flung from her seat onto the floor, where she cut her leg on a piece of rusty metal. <br />
<br />
The bus was scheduled to drop us in Manali around six in the morning. Instead, thanks to the reckless driving, we arrived at four in the morning. It is not good to arrive in a new town at four in the morning! We all stumbled off the bus, bleary eyed and rattled, only to find a hotelier waiting with a minivan and an offer we couldn't refuse: go with them, or sit around in the dark at the bus station until the rickshaw drivers woke up and arrived on scene.<br />
<br />
So we piled into the minivan and looked back with sorrow at the pair of French girls who remained behind in the pitch-black parkling lot, unwilling to be conned. The hotel turned out to be out of the way, a five minute walk on little dirt footpaths away from Old Manali's tiny little main road, and nice enough, but the whole episode left a foul taste in my mouth. I suspect the hotelier had made some sort of arrangement between the speeding bus driver. <br />
<br />
I ended up splitting the cost of a room with the poor girl who'd cut her leg on the bus for the remainder of the night (my share added up to about $3), dragging myself out of bed again at 8:30 and finding a different hotel. I imagine inertia was supposed to keep me in place, justifying the hotelier's time and effort, which is why I was so prompt about leaving. <br />
<br />
I'd been developing a mild cold in Dharamsala and the miserable, sleepless bus ride made it worse so I've been nursing my sore throat with the delicious concoction pictured above. It's available almost everywhere here.<br />
<br />
Below is the view from Manali - the mountains are getting bigger and look at those trees!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW0178g00tEa2YuGK_6LUItvq3IcVhhqQJb1F1xb4c7H3icJ6xfYSSpuTCusW0ZRpDQzMHDhxISdLMkZYvmihyphenhyphenqQasWfcmUwox0y0ndmJ6BZbiWNSHDX4XYLqFhe7IKgsuQp2d2DPtoEU/s1600/IMG_0147.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW0178g00tEa2YuGK_6LUItvq3IcVhhqQJb1F1xb4c7H3icJ6xfYSSpuTCusW0ZRpDQzMHDhxISdLMkZYvmihyphenhyphenqQasWfcmUwox0y0ndmJ6BZbiWNSHDX4XYLqFhe7IKgsuQp2d2DPtoEU/s400/IMG_0147.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-35026634306783444252011-10-04T03:31:00.002-04:002011-10-04T03:52:15.001-04:00The Dalai Lama<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNEIUg-yfL70uheZJCZrh_OQPumPpAJ0TeIqtAmwNagfdfPxGpFudm1-wtNMoq9H_3GT-4XCr4Ejht3dA7Rsq5u5zatQvOPjayjSI-jLgwWGTL3GS5LrMHL8ACrWB9dajWRqtq2J75xoE/s1600/monks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNEIUg-yfL70uheZJCZrh_OQPumPpAJ0TeIqtAmwNagfdfPxGpFudm1-wtNMoq9H_3GT-4XCr4Ejht3dA7Rsq5u5zatQvOPjayjSI-jLgwWGTL3GS5LrMHL8ACrWB9dajWRqtq2J75xoE/s400/monks.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
I've been in Dharamsala for a few days now - or, actually, McLeod-Ganj, which sounds much less romantic so I can't blame people for referring to the town by the name of its big sister. It's the site of the Dalai Lama's home since he went into exile, the current epicenter of Tibetan Buddhism, and as a result the town feels a lot like a cross between...well, between a small Himalayan village and the student union of a particularly hippy-ish university. <br />
<br />
My arrival was lucky, since the Dalai Lama was in residence and giving a series of lectures at the temple. I attended one...well, I snuck into one, anyhow. I read the signs explaining how to register for entrance and went about assembling the necessary items: passport photos for security, an FM radio so I could hear the instant translation of his lecture, a safe place to leave my camera behind. But when I showed up bright and early at security I was told that registration had closed. Too bad for me. <br />
<br />
Disappointed, I turned around to head home and figure out what else I might want to do here when this long-haired Russian dude pulled me to the side of the road. He was sitting on a little bench drinking masala tea with a monk. There are lots of monks here. For some reason, the Russian dude was determined to get me into the lecture and he devised a brilliant scheme: I'd head back up to security with the monk, who would announce that I was his wife, and then they'd have to let me in! <br />
<br />
I'm not sure who was more embarrassed by this suggestion, the monk or myself, but the remarkable thing is that we actually tried it. <br />
<br />
It didn't work.<br />
<br />
But Russian Dude was not deterred. He led me back around the temple, away from security, and then up a series of staircases and rickety little ladders until we'd snuck into the audience hall from another direction. This felt sort of wrong and, furthermore, was kind of depressing - those poor security guys at the gate were confiscating Swiss Army knives from all the visitors and for what?<br />
<br />
Anyhow, the temple looks a lot like a public school building. Not fancy at all. Which is nice, in a way; a show of humility and simplicity, no concern for worldly goods. And I saw the Dalai Lama as he passed into the main hall where he'd speak, preceded by incense and surrounded by devoted believers who pressed their palms together and bowed in his presence. It was the sort of thing that reminds you that Buddhism isn't just a philosophy or a spiritual practice; it's a <i>religion</i>.<br />
<br />
The lecture itself wasn't anything new or revelatory. Compassion, non-violence, emptiness, the non-existence of things. Maybe if I were more invested in the philosophy I'd have a comment on the nuances. Instead I felt a lot like I was listening to a primer on Structuralism (if things are interdependent for existence, they have no existence of their own, they are not real...)<br />
<br />
As the lecture wound to a close, someone unwound a long strip of yellow cloth along the railing of the staircase leading down and out of the temple. They tied the ends, tying the sleeve to the rail, the Dalai Lama walked down the staircase, someone rolled up the yellow cloth and the morning session was over.<br />
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</div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-42383365458318396302011-10-02T04:13:00.003-04:002011-10-02T04:39:32.913-04:00Delhi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I don't have anything smart to say about Delhi so instead I'm going to go for the chuckles. <br />
<br />
(1) I packed a little bottle of iced-tea flavoring to add to bottles of water. This made me feel really clever and when, upon arrival at my hotel, I was presented with a bottle of cold water I triumphantly unwrapped the flavoring and squirted it in. Unfortunately, the flavoring tasted awful and later that night I had to brush my teeth with iced tea. Not a success.<br />
<br />
(2) I woke up early the next morning, courtesy of jet lag, and ventured out into the city. I took the metro three stations on my own! I felt so proud! I presented my token, let some ladies feel me up behind a ratty curtain and correctly read the signs telling me which direction to go and where to exit. It's amazing how venturing abroad makes even the smallest accomplishments feel huge.<br />
<br />
(3) After wading through waves of irritating, harassing touts I arrived at the state tourism office at 9am, ready to schedule myself a spot on a daily bus tour of the city. Delhi is so big that I wanted a general lay of the land. The dour, droopy-eyed concierge assured me that the bus tour, scheduled to begin at 9am, no, 10am, no, 9:30 am, and touring only New Delhi, no, lasting all day and covering all the major sights in Old and New Delhi, was completely booked. After scolding me for not having booked my bus tour weeks in advance, he asked me if I wanted to take a car tour instead? <br />
<br />
(4) I declined the concierge's kind offer and took an auto-rickshaw to the Red Fort. The Red Fort was gorgeous and epic and a wonder to behold. But I left to hoof it around Old Delhi and within the space of an hour I'd burned myself red as a beet (forgot to put on sunscreen!), overheated and exhausted myself. I headed back to my hotel to take a nap at about 3 in the afternoon and then slept until four the next morning, when I woke up and immediately booked myself on a bus to Dharamsala. <br />
<br />
(5) I've heard the buses that wind north through the Himalayas are terrifying, but I was never nervous about our driver's competence. What did totally freak me out were the bumpy roads. I'd lean my head back against the headrest to doze off and a few minutes later one of the bumps in the road would knock my forehead against the window pretty hard, I'd wake up, and my hair would have been teased into a bee-hive at the back of my head from all the bumping. So I'd finger-comb my hair smooth again and then doze off until the next pothole had me repeating the process. By the time I got off the plane, my hair felt stiff and crunchy as though I'd been swimming in the ocean - the accumulation of the day's sweat. Ugh.<br />
<br />
Delhi totally kicked my butt; maybe by the time I return there at the end of my stay I'll be able to handle the chaos, the harassment, the heat and the dirt. It will be interesting to use my first experience of the city as a benchmark. So far Dharamsala has been divine, and I'll finish this post with a picture of my view over breakfast, after I checked into my hotel and ventured out for a bite on a nearby terrace:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimUXFZNgoTORDq3TS_wKI1OJGogj804ehcYPotxPCtCPAL8EFVe8b2kZa2AxxDe10J0C8DnFs7kPAoQj4NCmByD4zZyYOK6bmz_Hd5RhlZ7yEMmZG5_tkptezZRv9RF3gCvAQCF5CKkWo/s1600/dharamsala.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimUXFZNgoTORDq3TS_wKI1OJGogj804ehcYPotxPCtCPAL8EFVe8b2kZa2AxxDe10J0C8DnFs7kPAoQj4NCmByD4zZyYOK6bmz_Hd5RhlZ7yEMmZG5_tkptezZRv9RF3gCvAQCF5CKkWo/s320/dharamsala.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-55275674194015893512010-07-25T19:28:00.004-04:002010-07-26T17:02:08.942-04:00Sex at Dawn: The Prehistoric Origins of Modern Sexuality, by Christopher Ryan and Cacilda Jetha<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4qaJoLTmjHedr8u-akTT4ArMCPJl6VAsTszz0_TRYywHl2B6zpKu0HGdyvl_9J0Gl_UHbCCMHf96QwU0a5vTJKiBVjAxr96X8Pf2k9IpBiGOH_1BfhTozVZKNzuo7hN-1otOtHCRCe3A/s1600/sexatdawn-hc-c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4qaJoLTmjHedr8u-akTT4ArMCPJl6VAsTszz0_TRYywHl2B6zpKu0HGdyvl_9J0Gl_UHbCCMHf96QwU0a5vTJKiBVjAxr96X8Pf2k9IpBiGOH_1BfhTozVZKNzuo7hN-1otOtHCRCe3A/s320/sexatdawn-hc-c.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I picked up this book after I read about it in Dan Savage's July 7, 2010 column. I've been a big fan of Dan Savage for years now, and when I read what he had to say about <i>Sex at Dawn</i> I dropped everything and started reading. So in case you feel the same way, here's a quote: </span></div><blockquote>"<i>Sex At Dawn</i> is the single most important book about human sexuality since Alfred Kinsey unleashed <i>Sexual Behavior In The Human Male</i> on the American public in 1948. Want to understand why men married to supermodels cheat? Why so many marriages are sexless? Why paternity tests often reveal that the 'father' isn’t? Read <i>Sex At Dawn</i>."</blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;">It really is pretty awesome. It's fun to read, and very well-researched. As a former anthroplogy major, I felt like I was in familiar territory, and I appreciated that when the authors couldn't discuss a subject in-depth they always cited multiple more comprehensive sources. This is important, and I mention it first because so many of their claims are pretty incendiary. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;">Their basic thesis is as follows: most of human evolution took place in pre-historic, non-agrarian societies. The standard narratives about human sexuality - about men who try to spread their genes by sleeping around, and women who try to secure the protection of a single male - simply don't fit with what we know about pre-historic lifestyles. By investigating the sexual habits of our closest genetic relatives (chimpanzees and bonobos) and also by analyzing human hunter-gatherer societies past and present with a fresh eye, we can come to a better understanding of contemporary sexual behavior.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;">Basically: Why do we cling to the idea that human beings evolved to engage in a perpetual "war of the sexes," with men and women in a state of mutual exploitation? Is there a way of understanding our sexual urges as adaptive and useful, rather than unnatural and dysfunctional? </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;">And the answer to that last question is: well, yeah, there is. Unfortunately, it's an answer a lot of people won't like very much. For the vast majority of human history, we lived in small, nomadic groups where multi-partner mating was common. Women are built to accomodate multiple partners at once (sperm competition); men are built to seek variety (exogamy, avoid incest). Monogamy is not a natural state. And however we behave now, our bodies are still tuned to the old dance.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;">The authors support their claims with <i>mountains</i> of evidence. They compare the size and shape of male genitalia among chimps, bonobos, gorillas, orangutans, and gibbons. They describe behavioral experiments involving farm animals. They discuss Jane Goodall's fieldwork with chimps in Gombe. They turn to fieldwork on modern hunter-gatherer cultures from around the world, in the Amazon basin, China, and Africa. They mine accounts of early European explorers, from the first English settlers in Australia to Darwin. They give Hobbes a thorough beat-down. They talk about declining testosterone levels, Calvin Coolidge, and the smelly t-shirt experiment. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;">Personally, I was convinced. And I really do believe, like the authors do, that understanding and accepting our biological make-up can make us happier, healthier, and more peaceful people. I very highly recommend this book. As Dan Savage says: even if you are unwavering in your support of monogamy, at least make the effort to understand why it's such hard work. </span></div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-26090206098423104382010-07-07T16:27:00.002-04:002010-07-07T16:45:23.055-04:00The Daily ShowLast week - on June 29, 2010 - Asit kindly let me tag along with him to a taping of <i>The Daily Show</i>. It's the first time I've ever gone to see a TV show recorded and it was a pretty interesting experience, though most of the comments I'd make fall in line with general chatter I've heard about what happens when you get too close to the magic of modern media.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Here's the door into the theater (the sign reads: Abandon News, All Ye Who Enter Here - gotta love the Dante reference):<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3U8k_S3QH_K7_JPSbDH4iA-Qtv5TA8dbc1HW_QesykwssCyBIHd60fmZ2__Q2MyPqj-8C_CfoQl8G0EjkJ10pjDWVFc-j0BPBKNXHj7ikA23zN9p_KE3D4UdiqH6ix3_c8idOzqB8IRA/s1600/IMG_0135.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3U8k_S3QH_K7_JPSbDH4iA-Qtv5TA8dbc1HW_QesykwssCyBIHd60fmZ2__Q2MyPqj-8C_CfoQl8G0EjkJ10pjDWVFc-j0BPBKNXHj7ikA23zN9p_KE3D4UdiqH6ix3_c8idOzqB8IRA/s320/IMG_0135.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<br />
And here are our fancy, high-security tickets into the taping:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlLgDtfa8dvXCkLMVBjpSHt0pj5EtcEk9YMHrtbFzf25eKtG0F3CeLsPN5lk8gV7yzRHPNJvwSw4ibZZRIdPS71jX3rsICToH9KQ0j3vN6YZd3cmrvAD9tqgYQ9B6h6TXPfMQJ5jTBpDY/s1600/IMG_0138.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlLgDtfa8dvXCkLMVBjpSHt0pj5EtcEk9YMHrtbFzf25eKtG0F3CeLsPN5lk8gV7yzRHPNJvwSw4ibZZRIdPS71jX3rsICToH9KQ0j3vN6YZd3cmrvAD9tqgYQ9B6h6TXPfMQJ5jTBpDY/s320/IMG_0138.JPG" /></a></div><br />
They say 25 and 26 but I think they really meant 125 and 126, or 225 and 226...whatever the number, we still got inside. We had reserved spots but they overbook every show so if you want in, you have to show up early and wait around. I think we waited for about 2 hours.<br />
<br />
We were shown into the theater probably half an hour before taping started. We settled down and then the self-described "warm up monkey" came out to loosen up our laughing muscles and also warn us that, as the show's only laugh track, it was our solemn duty to laugh loud and often. The price of entry, as it were, given that admittance was otherwise free.<br />
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If you watch <i>The Daily Show</i>, you know that Jon Stewart makes a habit of chatting up his audience before the show starts. The chatting up is pretty carefully timed - I think it lasts about two minutes - he came out when the warm-up monkey was done and took a few questions. It's a neat way of going a little above and beyond, being generous with his audience, but also, I think, a way for him to warm <i>himself</i> up. Our first question was about his favorite cheese, so we mostly got a long monologue on the subject of cheese. His favorites are semi-soft, and he thinks jack cheese should not be loaded up with foreign objects like pepper. <br />
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The thing I noticed most, once taping got started, was how obvious it was that Jon Stewart is acting. Watching on TV, his manners and gestures always seem very natural to me - of course I know that he's acting, and the shows are very obviously scripted and carefully constructed, but I've always had the impression that I'm watching Jon Stewart more or less be himself. And maybe that's true, or maybe that's not - clearly I'm not qualified to judge, since I have no standard of comparison - but sitting in the live audience, it was very obvious that his constant gesturing, raised voice, and focused intensity are unnatural. That it's not at all like having a conversation with a normal person, not on TV, where arm-windmilling and mugging for the camera would be disconcerting instead of hilarious. <br />
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I've heard actors say that before, that taking up space and moving your body on and off the stage are different things, and complain that non-actors lack affect. We don't choreograph our thoughts and emotions with our bodies, or at least we don't do so intentionally. The result is that "normal" body language looks very dull and wooden on TV, I think.<br />
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Other than that, the taping was pretty quick - not surprisingly, it lasted exactly as long as the show does - there wasn't much delay as people or props were ushered on and off the set, or cameras were moved about. The guest was Helen Mirren, which I found terribly exciting. She was gracious and gorgeous, and she looked like a breath of fresh air in a sleek black sheath with a little tie-front white shrug on. The interview, however, seemed pretty stiff to me, and she didn't linger once it was over.<br />
<br />
So there you go, a little run down of being an audience member at <i>The Daily Show</i>. It'd be interesting to check out a few other live tapings, just to make the comparison, and it was interesting to see the set - it looks just like it does on TV, but somehow less impressive. Definitely a fun thing to do, and I recommend it to anyone who has the opportunity to attend.<br />
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</div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-45793350037266770282010-07-01T13:34:00.005-04:002010-07-01T22:28:02.520-04:00I Am Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7nsg4xFyG6CeqNYOm9pz9plkRvIpHZCOW0XDfDTJWqJ3LRbNQoLlJFbF8RM7vwnDM1UNuyNCblnkZtK1I-8Vh-QKw4v62WwmXtjaWMqz5l2Bj-3fnpBF01DsvHwUNde1f3Dit5Qk_7JE/s1600/i_am_love.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7nsg4xFyG6CeqNYOm9pz9plkRvIpHZCOW0XDfDTJWqJ3LRbNQoLlJFbF8RM7vwnDM1UNuyNCblnkZtK1I-8Vh-QKw4v62WwmXtjaWMqz5l2Bj-3fnpBF01DsvHwUNde1f3Dit5Qk_7JE/s320/i_am_love.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<i>I Am Love</i> is an odd movie. It's full of things that ought not to work. I kept thinking things like, "Oh no, not another movie about falling in love through the erotic powers of food," or "Really? A lesbian subplot featuring prurient close-ups of hot girls kissing?" and "That twist at the end, so cheap." <br />
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There's more, too. It's shot oddly - there are outdoor night-scenes that are very poorly lit, so that all the actors are dim and grey; there are lengthy close-ups of rain on statues and multiple flat, disposable-camera style shots of buildings passing by from the window of a car. The movie is lulling, a slow burn rather than a firecracker. Especially at first, it's hard to really get a grip on what's going on - all the characters are self-controlled, not particularly emotive, and it's a game of reading into their non-reactions as events unfurl.<br />
<br />
But it does work, despite all of the elements that would sink a lesser movie. Because all of the twists and turns that would have evolved into high drama in another film are dulled or blunted here, <i>I Am Love</i> is a film all about subterranean, core-deep tectonic shifts that slowly build up pressure until finally, as the movie nears its conclusion, the cracks that begin to visibly split the family apart really do feel like earthquakes. <br />
<br />
After I walked out of the theater, while I was hashing out my thoughts with my cousin, who'd accompanied me, and then later as I read through a few reviews, I realized exactly how well-balanced the movie is. My cousin asked if I thought it was a movie that glamorized adultery and leaving one's family to pursue the thrill of true love. And I answered: no, I didn't get that sense at all. That was what Tilda's character did, yes, but it didn't seem like a victory or a prescription; and there's another sub-plot, about a son who finds a nice girl and settles down with her, who seems perfectly happy to do the expected thing, that's presented with the same lack of judgment. <br />
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And the things that stuck me most, which seem to strike everyone the most, are all self-consciously quiet. A scene when Tilda asks her housekeeper to have dinner with her while they're both doing chores in the laundry room. A shot when Tilda's character laughs, a rare occurance, while sitting on the toilet. A tense, absolutely perfect moment between Tilda and her husband near the conclusion, when a scene ready-made to overflow with sturm and drang instead went the way of a silent but shocking nuclear explosion. The movie is full of scenes that illustrate the power of understatement.<br />
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Final note: I just re-read the <i>New Yorker</i>'s review of the film (<a href="http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/cinema/2010/06/28/100628crci_cinema_lane?currentPage=1">Second Helpings</a>) - it's utterly glowing, beginning with the strict admonition to see the movie in theaters rather than waiting for it to come out on DVD. The only thing that the author, Anthony Lane, complains about is the scene where Tilda's lover gives her oral sex. It cuts between the coupling and shots of insects going about their business, and he's right that this is not exactly a fresh metaphor - but the whole movie is like that, full of cliched imagery that still somehow works. In the same paragraph, even, Lane gushingly describes the film's metaphorical use of the changing seasons, from winter to spring. If he's willing to enthuse about the <i>weather</i>, his excuse about the bees doesn't hold water. When I watched the sex scene, I remember thinking about <i>This Film Not Yet Rated</i>, which argues very strongly that the ratings board penalizes movies that show female pleasure and in particular oral sex on women. Even at the time, I was surprised and delighted to see a filmmaker so clearly and unapologetically <i>go there</i>. Shame on you, <i>New Yorker </i>critic, for jumping on the bandwagon and telling us that scenes of cunnilingus are unnecessary. The truth is precisely the opposite.erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-35154136849771004012010-06-21T13:26:00.002-04:002010-06-21T15:01:51.451-04:00Brooklyn Photos<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGF0bCOiL8ra04somfJ7DFISzcIHS6IHM3LJXkqx5hVMBrKcE9nkd-gVaC-iTJHEkbNd28AN5_T-PYedfZeBFNI4jrwPp2-xM7LisYh0FBoX6B_VvJPz4ZjRs3imVTDFVqC9a-viCMY0U/s400/IMG_0086.JPG" width="400" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Kids playing in front of the Brooklyn Museum of Art; they're leaning over a fountain</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_apLtM_UfdWQdtTn3LdQrOgADSGpn5CL7JmvDV6L6vrNUMG_abH6cs8L60YnfrnWOQ7GNXBL_uPJ_3D0ad73fzlHL9m32eE_oKIUtfSRtwLBw-r0bPGVLprH-EOFQaGDZrpSUEeBW30/s400/IMG_0091.JPG" width="400" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Koi feeding frenzy at the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXjDHg0-qMyyqoVwyiOq22BOmB1IynRFDQ0Ng4X2uVxSitsWESuyDgLfpp_zlz_Zofmw_mHhTzGEeaRS1fkhfE4cgvewFdJVkKAwKhddCjjEcIi8Ia-yQHSFwicHc7FNg_NeLzj7tp6wk/s320/IMG_0094.JPG" /> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Witty graffiti. I love this kind of conversational graffiti - like person who wrote it is trying to make a little offhand comment to all the other people in the subway. It brings New Yorkers together. This one's an ad for vodka. The text reads, "Our ambassador Paul tried it. And he was all 'This is so good I would bathe in it.' So being the marketing guys at 42Below, we let him. Is that so wrong?" So the grafitti artist wrote, "It is if your vodka 'is so good'."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-59232128445586122962010-06-10T14:29:00.001-04:002010-06-19T23:37:30.652-04:00In the Company of Writers by Charles Scribner Jr.<i>In the Company of Writers</i> is, more or less, a publishing memoir. The author, one in a long line of Charles Scribners, helmed Scribners during a pretty fascinating, transitional period in the industry - and in his own company. He took over at the tail end of the Max Perkins era, when Scribners was a powerhouse of major voices in literature (Hemingway, Fitzgerald, etc.), and stayed on through the company's merger with Macmillan, when Scribners became an imprint of a major conglomerate instead of an independent company.<br />
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He's so matter-of-fact about the position of privilege he was born into that it's impossible to resent him for it, and he didn't squander his advantages - he had an excellent education, for example, and so he became a student of Latin and Greek, was passionate about the history of science, and had an active life of the mind well into his twilight years. He seems - and, really, it's impossible to know the truth through the text - but he seems like a true gentleman, in the best sense of the word. And he describes his years at Scribners, working with authors like Hemingway, coping with the paperback revolution, and just generally staying afloat, with appealing candor. There are some great little anecdotes, too.<br />
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Either because the author himself was influenced stylistically by his authors, or because much of the book was crafted out of an oral history (Scribner was too old to undertake a memoir on his own, so he told his story and let someone else do the writing), or thanks to the intermediary who translated Scribner's speech into text, the book is gorgeously written and gives a stylistic nod to Hemingway. Before I read Hemingway, I really resented the overwhelming influence he has exerted on American writers. Now that I've read Hemingway, I wish more people would write like him. I guess that's how it goes sometimes. So the prose here is gorgeous, and it's a pretty quick, easy read.<br />
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I really liked this book. It captures a time and a place, and it seems really wise to me.erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-35009411231798758582010-06-08T19:05:00.003-04:002010-06-19T23:41:57.482-04:00Hubris<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCUEogSS3YfKIgDhwnZC7AO2PbP3z_5dEBQWEZ9_W4FDgm7-Qn2SbS5aw8cnQbWZVN9VrvofYhK1EUrMYhFMBPcOQ9aBMWCcaeeTiVB1MgynID2hI6acNZYnL92ZzgZ6KnrwqRuc6XPnE/s1600/DSCF0041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCUEogSS3YfKIgDhwnZC7AO2PbP3z_5dEBQWEZ9_W4FDgm7-Qn2SbS5aw8cnQbWZVN9VrvofYhK1EUrMYhFMBPcOQ9aBMWCcaeeTiVB1MgynID2hI6acNZYnL92ZzgZ6KnrwqRuc6XPnE/s320/DSCF0041.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The <i>New York Times</i> has these ads running around town right now. I know people who find the NYT motto "All the news that's fit to print" unbearably arrogant, but as a mission statement I think it's excellent. It's ambitious and bold and...oh yeah...it's about their desire to cover the news.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">These ads, on the other hand, are just narcissism. As though, for some reason, the <i>New York Times</i> wants to position itself as the Paris Hilton of news organizations. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-14693444687815712612010-06-04T17:39:00.003-04:002010-06-19T23:38:37.811-04:00Wouldn't it be nice.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDfsxQOhfqTI07prHXG2TuSvvYaeNiTTCW7cYLq4prea07wCgvDaRCWWRJ9qDz_uK3Y3udKvOGOWjYKn3hz_g-kq7zEHCm7Yzmb-GwjiWa80lm9jEWiY1VN22Nv_f5kFFLjYaJAZ3Tgzs/s1600/satc2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDfsxQOhfqTI07prHXG2TuSvvYaeNiTTCW7cYLq4prea07wCgvDaRCWWRJ9qDz_uK3Y3udKvOGOWjYKn3hz_g-kq7zEHCm7Yzmb-GwjiWa80lm9jEWiY1VN22Nv_f5kFFLjYaJAZ3Tgzs/s320/satc2.jpg" width="196" /></a></div>I was chatting about the new Sex & the City movie, and how I don't plan on seeing it. I was a fan of the TV show, not a huge fan but I made a point of watching new episodes when they came out. I liked the love letter to New York, I liked the idea that people could be friends even when they were so different, I liked the clothes, I liked that all the girls met each new romantic adventure with hope, though the shows contained no shortage of disappointment and frustration and heartbreak. <br />
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The new movie has been so widely and thoroughly panned that I don't need to describe, here, why I don't plan on seeing it. But during this little chat I did think of something that would have made a 2nd Sex and the City movie watchable, justifiable, and interesting. What if it had been a movie where those 4 well-heeled, materialistic girls...were poor? What if some of them suffered a lot during the economic downturn, but others didn't...would the friendship endure, and how? What if Big didn't work for a year and a half - would Carrie still find him so utterly hot?<br />
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It would have been nice to see a movie about a friendship that lasts through disasters and disparities of that magnitude. And I bet it could have been fun and inspiring as well.<br />
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It was suggested to me that there were probably a lot of other potential plots that could have resulted in a better movie than the one we got. No doubt. Any other ideas?erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-33918592692367121302010-06-02T18:25:00.004-04:002010-06-19T23:39:35.891-04:00Can you believe this is a Dunkin Donuts? It is.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9WurSj49Np9CFCP8wZ9RFW3HPalc65bYMUA2vizwc7_31SBLx5PApotzgGEEKUNII7o2F4Cr5nqzan1XBTMOzCQHDJ7FzQ-13IB2vIRLu7fWkonAMBJBveRSdt2SWfnxR3ZBs6mRz_C8/s1600/DSCF0010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9WurSj49Np9CFCP8wZ9RFW3HPalc65bYMUA2vizwc7_31SBLx5PApotzgGEEKUNII7o2F4Cr5nqzan1XBTMOzCQHDJ7FzQ-13IB2vIRLu7fWkonAMBJBveRSdt2SWfnxR3ZBs6mRz_C8/s320/DSCF0010.JPG" /></a></div>In Carroll Gardens, on Court Street.erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368905951175026915.post-10000436724885482412010-05-18T17:18:00.004-04:002010-06-19T23:42:28.613-04:00West 70th, Looking North<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZh0SJvtgMerRXge0n0TowRMMR8gRd6Fcww2jwl5w66cokn4Cp-8qcV3OEMwl3UBCKh4XESd5DXcqNwHQMrxT7XahjiqUEIIGMRGCR1CIqU2ALbsR7vMZFVyVR_PVKGA3r0R2aeRysN6k/s1600/IMG_0060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZh0SJvtgMerRXge0n0TowRMMR8gRd6Fcww2jwl5w66cokn4Cp-8qcV3OEMwl3UBCKh4XESd5DXcqNwHQMrxT7XahjiqUEIIGMRGCR1CIqU2ALbsR7vMZFVyVR_PVKGA3r0R2aeRysN6k/s400/IMG_0060.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14965692284942052198noreply@blogger.com1