Anglophile Abroad

Please visit my new professional writing website!

2011-11-03T18:15:00.000-07:00

As you can see, this blog is neglected. That's because I've been working on my new shiny professional writing website. I haven't quite made the URL switch, so until I do, please click here to find out about my writing services and background.

www.laurenvanmullem.com

Feels like I've been away for a long time

2011-03-14T14:39:00.000-07:00

I feel like I've been out of the country for the last three months. Or maybe "down the rabbit hole" might be a better description. But Alice has returned from Wonderland and couldn't be happier to be back! She gets to see her boyfriend again during waking hours, she gets to expose her pale skin to sunlight, and she gets to go back to writing. Life is good.

I've been making a list of all the things I want to do after I'm finished with event planning for Habitat for Humanity, which I will post here since that is a more appropriate place for it. But for this blog, it means finally finishing the India posts. I've got more to say about India, and now I have the time and energy to say it! Posting will start up tomorrow so I can bump that darn Christmas dog story down. It's disgraceful for a writer not to post on her own blog in three months.

What can I say? I was having tea with the denizens of Wonderland. They keep a girl very busy.

Dog’s Gifts – A Christmas Tail

2010-12-24T20:55:00.000-08:00

One of Pokey’s first memories was of being in a very dark place. It smelled like cardboard. He remembered seeing little points of light shining through the darkness, and the crisp scent of prime pine peeing territory mingling with the smells of paper and boxes. Then, the ground, walls, and roof began to shake and the darkness was torn away with loud shredding noises by a very excited little girl. The puppy looked up at the girl, who squealed as if her tail had just been stepped on.

Pokey looked up from the little girl to the towering fir tree piled around with lots of boxes and paper bits. If the little girl would just let him go, he’d be glad to mark the turf for her.

Many years after the puppy grew into a larger, older, somewhat crankier dog – still with shoe button eyes and far too much personality for his diminutive size – he remembered that day. And, he came to learn its significance. Every year, the little girl (who had grown a few inches up and a few inches out and kept leaving the pack for weeks at a time) and “Mom” recreated the scene. They put up the tree. They put out the boxes. And every year since the year of his birth, they celebrated him.

He appreciated the effort.

Pokey knew that when the tree went up and the boxes went out, it meant that his people would worship him appropriately again.

He was given gifts, which he tore open with his quick little paws and flung into the air. The people tried to grab his toys, but he was always a little too fast for them. His success rate of keeping his toys away from his people made him very proud.

He was given treats – biscuits, but also bits of cookies, graham crackers, steak and chicken. He wished he could impress upon his people that he would prefer Pizza on his special day, but his people could be very dense sometimes. Usually though, they understood.

When he was taken for walks in the weeks leading up to his special day, his people dressed him in a red and white ceremonial coat, which he did not like. It itched.

This year, Pokey was ready. The tree was up, the boxes were out. And he was sniffing around the tree for his annual offerings. He knew them by the sound of their special crinkly paper and by the scent of fuzz. Sometimes he was thrown off by faux fur trim on people clothes, but his worshipping people didn’t allow him to drag their clothes around. He didn't know why they were so picky. He searched and searched, but couldn’t find the gifts that were due him.

He looked up at the little girl, ears pricked forward, and stared at her, willing her to understand that he wanted his presents NOW. She looked back and said “Nooooo, way wa bill blahbarro.” He understood “no,” but didn’t like it. He turned to “Mom” and sneezed at her, which usually got a reaction. She looked at him and made the same incomprehensible noises. He didn't understand. This was his day. They had celebrated him since he first came into their world in one of those tree boxes. And he wanted his presents.

Pokey was frustrated.

But not to worry. Because if Pokey had a calendar hung at terrier eye-level, he would have realized that the day on which his people celebrated him was tomorrow. It was only Christmas Eve.

Merry Christmas to All, and Remember: Dog is Watching.

If you liked this Christmas tale, take a look at The Story of Yule from last year!

Livescribe Story: Lauren VanMullem, Journalist

2010-12-11T06:00:00.000-08:00

A little over a month ago, LiveScribe asked me to be part of a special marketing effort to show people how others use SmartPens. They flew me to Phoenix to interview me on camera - The Journalist! - and here is the end result. Me, on film. No, I'm not gunning for a career in broadcast journalism. I was so nervous I could hardly make my facial muscles smile in front of the camera. But, my many years of theater and classical voice training came through in the end, and goodness knows I am a ham at heart.

A word about my Rita Skeeter magic SmartPen: The thing not only records audio as I write, but it records my actual handwriting on the page and saves it to my computer. If I lose the notebook, it's backed up. If I want to draw something to remember it better, I can do that and see it on my computer screen later. Mostly though, I use the SmartPen for interviews when I want to capture the spirit and spontaneity of the conversation. You can't do that if you need to ask your interviewee to slow down, or repeat the brilliant sentence he or she just said (they never can). The best example of the SmartPen in action is my recent Solvang Brewing Company feature for the Santa Barbara Independent - I never could have caught that last anecdote if I was writing it down by hand.

I also use the pen to record my 94 year old grandfather's family stories, like of how he and my grandmother met, and his years serving in China after WWII. And did I mention that the LiveScribe notebooks come in pink?

Love my LiveScribe pen.

What Happens in Jodhpur, Stays in Jodhpur

2010-12-10T06:00:00.000-08:00

We had dinner at the hotel. The hotel staff set up tables, chairs, and a long buffet on the grass in the courtyard by the pool, almost like a wedding reception. Classical Indian musicians in turbans with long curved mustaches played drums and sitars and sang. A group of children looked down at us from one of the second-story balconies and greeted us with waves and smiles. It didn’t take them long to want to come down and see us close up. Their older sister, a sweet beautiful young woman of around 20, brought them down, and she begged us with that irresistibly musical lilting Indian accent (how I envy those women their voices) to join her and her siblings in dancing to the music on the lawn.

We were so tired from climbing all over the fort that it took a lot of convincing. But she was so charming and warm that a few of us capitulated. I felt like an awkward creature trying to dance. My British body doesn’t move well. It just clunks around unless I’m dancing in a strictly European style – I look right at home with the waltz. I’m just saying, don’t ask me to show you any of my Bollywood dance moves when I get home. What happens in Jodhpur, stays in Jodhpur.

The Blue City of Jodhpur

2010-12-09T06:00:00.000-08:00

October 21^st, From Varanasi to Delhi to Jodhpur

The flight back to Delhi from Varanasi was out of a small airport outside of the city. Our bus trundled to a halt about twenty minutes away – we were told that there was a traffic accident ahead.

When accidents happen in India, the driver is blamed. We were told that an angry mob attacked the driver and beat him. As we passed the scene, Marci and I saw men carrying a covered body on a stretcher. We weren’t sure if it was the driver or the victim of the accident.

The Varanasi airport was chaos. Indians would tell Beth directions for where we were supposed to stand, what documents we were supposed to have, what forms we had to fill out – and then they would tell her the opposite of what they had just said. We were ordered to stand in several different places without any apparent reason. They were confused, we were confused, and that’s India for you.

Everyone gets frisked before boarding, and the woman frisking us was completely baffled by under-wires. Beth thinks of me as a very calm, agreeable person, which just goes to show how well I can hide anxiety and rage – both of which were triggered in the airport. I had a fantasy of ripping off my bra and shoving it in the security woman’s face, saying “See, you idiot woman – this is a bra!” But, as always, I kept quiet. My face flushed, blood rushed to my head making it feel tingly, and I felt dizzy, sick, out of control, and really pissed off. I tried to take deep breaths and stop my eyes from tearing up because that would only add embarrassment to the situation. I wanted to be the fearless traveler, and Indiana Jones doesn’t have panic attacks.

Sitting on the plane, I thought of the stories I had heard of Indians sacrificing goats before takeoffs, and my Indian friend’s warnings of air-travel. I prayed for a safe flight, as I always do, and the plane rattled into the sky. Rickety airplanes don’t hold near the terror for me that airports do – I never said I was logical.

We spent the night at the Park hotel in Delhi again. Two of the ladies and I ran out to find an ATM and buy extra luggage to carry our increasing purchases. Luggage is sold on every other street corner in all sizes and styles. Sarah, my shopping fairy-godmother (previously mentioned here), helped me negotiate on a duffel bag big enough to hide a side of beef. She smiled at the seller, talking fast in her high feminine bubbly voice, her blond hair bobbing up and down as she nodded in agreement with herself that the seller really should lower his price, and gave him a list of reasons why. By the time Sarah was done working her magic, she had the price down to 800 rupees ($17.84)*. The luggage seller didn’t know what hit him.

^{*Yes, Setal, I know that $17.84 is a crap price for a dusty duffel with broken zippers, but for white female tourists it’s pretty good!}

The morning of October 21^st we were off to the airport again for a domestic flight to Jodhpur. Delhi’s airport is much better than the microcosm of Hell that is the Varanasi airport. The domestic terminal even had free internet kiosks, so I was able to email my mom and boyfriend and tell them that I wasn’t in the train wreck near Agra that happened earlier that morning. They hadn’t even heard of the train wreck, but it was in all of the papers in Delhi.

In Jodhpur we were met by our guide and tour bus outside of the airport. They greeted us with marigold and rose petal leis – and more importantly, bottled water. Jodhpur is a desert on the border of Pakistan, so the air is dry, dusty, and very hot.

We took a large air-conditioned tour bus to Mehrangarh Fort, a fortress on a hill that overlooks the entire “Blue City” of Jodhpur. Half of Jodhpur’s homes are painted bright sky blue. The trend began when the Brahmin cast painted their houses blue, just to let everyone know who lived there. Now, the trend has trickled down to anyone with enough money to buy paint. The other half of the houses are the ginger color of sandstone. Sandstone quarries are just outside the city, so they build everything out of rock; the fort is no exception. Even the lace-like screens covering the women’s floors from view are made of carved sandstone.

Forts were vital, especially in this region bordering Pakistan. Jodhpur was on the camel trade route and was a particularly important piece of real estate. Many forts were built to keep the Rajahs safe. We climbed to the top through gilded rooms of marble, hand painted floors, tapestries and carvings. We saw bejeweled elephant saddles and elaborate cradles for baby rajahs. We saw paintings done during the height of the rajahs rule, showing them hunting on horseback with hawks. In fact he English Jodhpur riding pants came into fashion because one of these Rajahs was an accomplished horseman. He invented the pants and liked them so much that he wore them on his travels.

While the Mehrangarh Fort is the main tourist attraction of Jodhpur, we got the feeling that we were the main attraction. Few westerners come to this part of India, and we got a lot of stares and requests to have our pictures taken with people’s children. They seemed to think that we were really cool – just us being there was exciting to them – and the feeling was completely mutual. With their beautiful saris and gorgeous children, we thought they were really cool too.

From the ruddy stone towers, I could see the whole city and into the dry hills surrounding it. As sunset approached, the Jodhpur practically glowed blue.

Ganges at Dawn

2010-12-08T06:00:00.000-08:00

October 20^th, 2009 - Varanasi Day 2

Our morning began at 5 a.m. so we could reach the Ganges for a sunrise boat ride. We went to the same place as the night before, but the shops that had been so busy at dusk - with people buying bottles to hold the holy river water, and stalls hung with sandalwood prayer beads, scarves and shirts with blessings written in Hindi script – were now only just opening up. The big business this morning was selling “Indian toothbrushes”: thin twigs of Neem wood that they use to clean their teeth. Neem tree oil is supposed to have many health properties for teeth and skin.

The kids were up early and were on the hunt for daft tourists who would buy decades old postcards. They were more persistent than horseflies. If a tourist speaks to one of these kids, the child will follow that tourist for miles, or until the tourist is rescued by her bus. A stern “No” is the only way to handle them.

Veena met us at the boat. The gray and hazy morning fog had not yet lifted, but in the soft light I could see that the opaque Ganges water is muddy brown. As we were rowed in the opposite direction of the previous night, Veena tells us that the locals come for morning and evening prayers (aarti) every day. Aarti are lead by priests, holymen, or religious students. The sunset Aarti is elaborate with seven holy men in orange robes lifting candles, tossing flower petals, chanting and clapping, and waving fans. Every motion has a meaning and purpose. Pilgrims, tourists and locals come at both dawn and dusk to watch.

I saw the sun rise over the far bank of the Ganges. There are no buildings on that side of the river since the ground is silt instead of rock. The mist burned off quickly, bathing the 18^th century pilgrim houses in warm light. Men and women bathed side by side, and launderers slapped twisted clothes against the lowest steps.

Daylight robbed the Gangs of the mysticism it had at night, but gave a world of color in return. The air was rose-colored from the cremation fires and the buildings were peach and yellow. Women’s saris stood out like jewels. Vendors in boats filled with stuff to sell rowed out to the boats of tourists – we weren’t the only white people floating out there.

After our boat brought us back to the steps we walked through the Old City, a series of alleyways that were about as wide as three people standing shoulder to shoulder. The kids were on us in seconds and some of the women had unfortunately not yet learned to tune them out.

Ganges at Night

2010-12-07T06:00:00.000-08:00

Outside the sky turned from peach, to pink, to periwinkle as we made our way to the Ghats for an evening boat ride on the Ganges. We were driven to a main crossroad where we had to get out and walk down the long streets that lead from the city down to the Ghats, and finally down to the river itself. The paved streets were lined with vendors selling saffron-hued “Om” scarves and religious figurines. Varanasi is India’s holiest city and religious souvenirs are a booming trade.

We walked past wallahs, street children and holy men – their half-naked bodies painted white – until we reached the steps to the river. In the marigold-colored lamplight, the white stone took on a golden tinge. Varanasi rose vertically from the water in huge man-made cliffs that tower over the flat murky water. The city has been growing up from the Ganges for hundreds of years. Newer buildings are placed on top of crumbling old ones; gods grace the rooftops of some and look out over the river. Children scamper up and down the steps selling floating candles and flowers for believers to set adrift with their wishes into the holy water.

Once in the boat, floating out into the water, I watched the Ghats and the river stretch as far as I could see in either direction. Mist shrouded the edges where the water and towers faded into gray infinity. Veena told us that sections, or Ghats, are divided along the steps for different purposes. There are bathing Ghats where men in loincloths and women in full saris ritually bathe themselves. There are laundry Ghats, which you can tell by the swaths of bright saris and a few pairs of blue jeans that are laid out to dry across the steps. Some Ghats are for cremation. Cloth-wrapped bodies are laid out on a low step, burned to ash, and swept into the river.

As we drifted down river, we approached one of the cremation Ghats and Veena instructs us not to take pictures. Mourners don’t appreciate cameras. We could see bodies wrapped in gold and orange – the colors for men – laid out. Each body will be dipped in the river for one last bathing, then laid out on wood stretchers for burning. Poorer families sometimes struggle to buy enough wood to burn the bodies completely, which is where stories of half-baked body parts floating down the Ganges come from. My imagination made corpses of everything floating past us.

Our boat turned back and I looked over my shoulder at the three hundred year old buildings: their curvy oriental windows and doors, stone carvings, globed and pointed roofs, and steps leading from the river up through stone archways into narrow alleys, shapes in ghostly shades of white stretching up from black water.

As we drifted near a cluster of boats lined up to watch the evening Aarti (prayer), girls scampered across the tops of the boats, leaping from one to the next, carrying baskets of small candles and matches. Most of us bought candles from the girls who, with Veena’s translations, told us how to use them. I silently wished for success in writing to I can do this – go adventuring – for the rest of my life. I’ve never seen such beauty and felt such grace. It is incredible to me that I’m sitting here on the Ganges at dusk, watching pyres burn and bathe the buildings in orange light.

The dark river sparkled with our tiny flames.

"A Nice Evening in Varanasi"

2010-12-06T17:53:00.000-08:00

Varanasi, October 19^th

“A Nice Evening in Varanasi” is the title on the cover of the CD I bought from the musicians we saw that evening. It’s the adjective that gets me – “nice.” The word is so underwhelming, especially when compared with the reality of spending an evening in Varanasi, India’s holiest city.

Veena had set up a performance for us at the home of a troupe of traditional Indian musicians. She lead us like so many ducklings through narrow alleyways and dirt streets, pausing for rickshaws and cars, steering around wallahs and cow turds. We arrived in a back alleyway defined by a twelve-foot brick wall covered with palm-sized patties of dung. To my left, a middle-aged woman squatted in the mud behind a placid steer forming more patties. She glanced up at us and ignored our presence so fiercely that I don’t think anyone dared take a picture. (Well, I did, but only when I thought she wasn't looking)

Varanasi, India

We stood on a porch in front of a double door made of thick wood with iron knockers. I wrapped my scarf more tightly around my shoulders, more in response to the darkening sky than to any chill, and kept watch for mosquitoes while we waited to enter. The musicians opened the door and greeted us, showing us in and offering us tea as we sat on a short elevated platform covered with carpets and cushions in the large entry room. Two of the men were short and dark; the third man was tall and androgynous with a pronounced lisp in green and gold robes.

The three men were brothers, each specializing in a different instrument: the harmonium, the sitar, and the tabla. The sitar is a classic instrument – when you think of the mysterious east, the soundtrack you hear in your head probably features a sitar. It’s a whiney, discordant sound. But as soon as the tabla player began, my eyes were fixed to his hands which beat like hummingbird wings on the two drums. The tabla drums are a little bigger than young coconuts; every beat sounds different depending on where the drum is hit, and what part of the hand is used to hit it. To learn to play the tabla takes eight to nine hours of practice per day for years, he told us, as he created deep, round metallic sounds, and light percussive tapping sounds for demonstration. The brothers have played all over Europe, traveling with dancers who accompany their music.

The tall androgynous man with the lisp didn’t look at all like his brothers. His skin was lighter, his face and body round, and his entire demeanor captured attention like a Broadway performer. He played instruments too, but his role tonight was to dance the part of Ganesh. A female dancer entered the room to play Lakshimi. They both wore percussive bells on their ankles that allowed them to add their own rhythms to the music. She whirled and the bells sewn into her clothing and clasped around her ankles tinkled and pounded in questions and answers to the tabla drums.

We all bought the CD.

Likes, Loves, and Mutual Appreciation

2010-10-31T14:32:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning to my mother shouting from the next room "Jerramy Fine Likes you." Of course, I knew this was in the Facebook sense of the word but it took me a minute to figure out why the author of the book I just finished would pay me any attention. Then I remembered - I wrote a post in my personal blog, Chronicles of My Quarterlife Crisis, two days ago in which I informally reviewed her book. Review may be the wrong word - I loved her book.

It's her autobiographical account of her childhood in a small U.S. country town, raised by hippies, and her obsession with finding her English prince. I feel like I know Jerramy Fine, not just because I've read her autobiographical novel, but because her life and mine are eerily alike. Growing up in a small country town among hippies and cowboys is one thing we have in common, but more importantly, we share the feeling of being misplaced at birth. Like the Stork's GPS system failed, and we were really supposed to go to argyle-clad families in thatched English cottages.

We both scooted over to England at the first opportunity, but the difference is - she didn't let anything stop her from staying there. Living in England is a difficult thing to do as an American girl. Immigration authorities are not kind. It's nearly impossible to get a work permit. Finding a British boyfriend... well, nobody tells that story better than she does. The woes and perils of modern dating are heart-breakingly represented. I'd love to pick her brain on "Ben and Xander's Guide to English Dating" which I posted after visiting Oxford last year, since I believe she somehow managed to get scaredy-cat Brits to ask her out on dates (a feat that Ben and Xander declared highly unlikely).

Basically, I'd invite her over for a pot of tea and cucumber sandwiches any time. So getting a shoutout from this kindred spirit on Facebook and Twitter was an incredible Halloween treat.

Cheers!

Brewing Company Hops into Wine-Soaked Solvang!

2010-10-22T16:26:00.000-07:00

Normally I am content to subtly link my articles on my Published Writing page, but seeing this Feature article published is cause for celebration! If I hadn’t imbibed all the beer in my fridge already, I would be popping open a bottle, because this was a difficult birth. I initially interviewed the Renfrows in the partially finished Viking Room on June 25th, when the estimated opening date was in August. Then, the opening date was September, then Oktoberfest, and now – finally – the Solvang Brewing Company has opened its doors and my article hit the stands on Wednesday!

I’m always proud when a feature gets published, but I get special warm fuzzy feelings with this one. It’s the community connection that I love writing about, and covering the long-awaited reopening of the Viking Room and historic windmill allowed me to show what a special community Solvang is. The last paragraph captures the heart of the story:

“A few months ago, this gentleman pulled up—he had to be close to 90—all spiffed up in a dress shirt, a bola, and a cowboy hat, heavy Danish accent. He says ‘When ’ja gonna be open?’” recalled Renfrow, who gave the man the planned opening date. “Fantastic; that’s my seat,” replied the man. “I used to sit there with my wife. Can I have that seat opening day?” Renfrow immediately obliged, promising, “We may have to kick someone out, but that seat is yours.”

Where else can you find a 90-year old Danish cowboy in a pickup truck? Only in my home town.

So I would like to send a shout-out to the Renfrows, their partners, their brewmaster and chef for giving me outstanding material to work with and telling me the stories that created this story. Best of luck on your new venture, and I will be there this weekend to raise a glass to you in person.

Solvang Brewing Company

1547 Mission St., Solvang
805-688-2337

Travel Writer Needs Mental Vacation

2010-10-20T17:27:00.000-07:00

It’s only Wednesday, and I already feel like I need a vacation. One that includes sleeping and eating and lots of it. I spent Monday and Tuesday helping my friend at Blackmarket Bakery to create a press release and doing a few things around the store – who knew that there is actually quite a bit of technique involved to sticking labels on brownies? All those sticker-placement skills I learned in Kindergarten were put to use, which amused me to no end. But let me tell you, hanging out at a bakery for two days, smelling the deliciousness of artichoke asiago croissants, cabernet brownies, cherry chocolate chip cookies, and freshly baked tarts and cakes is torture. Very pleasurable torture. I’m still hungry.

And I’m tired. A mix of getting up early every day this week and learning a lot of new things (at the bakery and at fencing class on Tuesday), and writing all day today has me mentally bushed.

I need a little mental vacation. I need a mental cruise in fact. Because cruises are perfect. You get on a boat, eat, sleep, eat more, get out and look around, go back and eat and sleep.

This schedule is precisely why I am normally not a cruise person. I like action, adventure, and lots of walking. But today, I want to be on a cruise. Can’t afford one, so I think I’ll take a day off tomorrow to eat, sleep, eat, go to the gym (or think about going to the gym and watch TV instead), and sleep again. It’s almost the same thing and it will do for now.

(Incidentally, the picture is of an actual Blackmarket Bakery cake - they are really talented)

Photogenic Fullerton

2010-09-20T15:06:00.000-07:00

Food Photography from Home and Travels

2010-09-16T12:42:00.001-07:00

The City of Learning and Burning

2010-09-12T11:31:00.000-07:00

October 19th

Varnasi is “a city of learning and burning,” our guide, Veena, tells us. There are four universities, and the city prides itself on the quality of its classical Indian music. The burning… I’ll get to that.

Like Delhi, Varanasi is crumbling. The dirt seems to be holding the walls up. The buildings are mostly the remnants of British colonial architecture and even though the columns and moldings are discolored, peeling and crumbling, they are still beautiful.

When I look at these white columned buildings, I can see the British colonists dressed in their Victorian whites and khakis, the ladies in their lace dresses, hair pinned in elaborate curls by their Indian maids. I see these ghosts sitting on the verandas sipping tea from bone china while being fanned by dark men in pale kurtas. Their hushed conversations are carried on the breeze.

Varanasi is the holiest place in the Hindu religion and is considered to be the center of earth in Hindu Cosmology. Buddhists and Jains also stake their claims here for holiness. It is one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world.

What draws people here, and what has drawn them for countless centuries, is the Ganges. Varanasi lifts itself up from the banks of the Ganges, its steps dipping into the water, the water sometimes rising up to the first few floors of the buildings, depending on season. The river provides life and livelihood for the world’s highest density of people. The river is also where they come to die. Leave it to me to reach from the sublime and poetic to a search on Wikipedia, but I think this says it best: In 1946, Jawaharlal Nehru wrote about the Ganges,

“The story of the Ganges, from her source to the sea, from old times to new, is the story of India’s civilization and culture, of the rise and fall of empires, of great and proud cities, of adventures of man.”

We take four air conditioned cars to the Momokshu Bhavan ashram. Midway, one of the ladies wants to switch to a less cramped car and, while we are stopped, an old man comes up to the window opposite of where I’m sitting, carrying a basket with a live cobra swaying up above the open lid. I, of course, think this is the coolest thing ever and without even thinking I point and say “Look! A Cobra!”

The woman sitting at the window turns around to look behind her, her nose inches from the cobra’s (with a glass window closed between them). A shriek and a jump ensue, and the man walks away with his cobra.

The Mumukshu Bhavan ashram is an old tattered building structured around a few shaded courtyards populated by monkeys and elderly residents. The residents mostly stay inside, or maybe that’s just because we were there. The people who stay at the ashram are waiting to die – they are old, feeble, a burden on their impoverished families, and want their bodies cremated on the banks of the holy river. Mumukshu Bhavan is a waiting room for death. To visit there is to feel mortality, an idea that is foreign to me as a 25 year old. Death is a theory to the young. We hear about it, sometimes we see it, but it doesn’t touch us. Still, I’m not entirely insensitive. I don’t whip out my camera to take pictures of the wrinkled men and women peeking out of their cells.

Some of the old residents are very willing to engage lookyloo western tourists and the women are taking pictures of everyone. It makes me uncomfortable. I know they would make great pictures, the kind you see on the cover of National Geographic with pleated folds of skin radiating out from wise timeless eyes. I get it. But I can’t justify what feels like rudeness and exploitation to get the shot. I can’t treat these people as objects to be photographed. I do, however, take pictures of the monkeys. Who doesn’t love a picture of a monkey?

Wildlife Photography

2010-05-10T12:04:00.000-07:00

Night Train to Varanasi

2010-04-20T13:47:00.000-07:00

October 19th, 2009

I swung the heavy duffel bag over my shoulder, feeling it dig into my skin, and tightened my grip on my big brown stained travel purse, careful not to press my finger down on the rivet that sticks up like a tack on the strap. I found that defect in London a few summers ago and never bothered to file the point down, figuring that any purse-snatcher would have a deservedly unpleasant experience if he tried to take this bag. Now avoiding the sharp bit of metal has become second-nature to me. I think of it as a little joke between me and my bag.

The other women collected their bags from the back of the tour bus in the dirt parking lot of the Delhi train station, waving away would-be helpers eager to haul our luggage for a few rupees. We’re all strong, independent women here, we don’t need help. Even if in order to reach our train we had to climb stairs and ramps, dodging more people than there are at Disneyland on a Saturday in July. Fortunately, we left our heavy luggage at the Park hotel on Connaught Circle, since we’d be returning to Delhi shortly. My roommate lent me her light duffel, made of parachute material the color of tomato-soup, and I had it packed tightly with everything that wouldn’t fit into my now bulging rolling suitcase left back at the hotel.

In early evening, the Delhi sky turns lavender above floating dust that never seems to settle. The dust covers everything and smells like shit, but in a not-unpleasant barnyard way that makes me think of home. Unfortunately, I brought a head-cold with me from Oxford, and the Delhi pollution makes any mild ailment into something potentially serious. But all my concentration was on following our Delhi guide through the crowds and keeping tabs on Nissa – the oldest member of our tour - to make sure she was ok. We wove through people, waited, climbed stairs and ramps, waited, and shuffled down again, finally reaching our train car.

The train to Varanasi is a 12-hour overnight trip. The nicest cars have narrow bunk beds, 4 to a compartment, curtained off from the main hallway. Because of the size of our group and the general inability to make plans in India, we couldn’t all fit in contiguous compartments, and some of the ladies were adamantly against mingling with “the foreigners.” Beth diplomatically handed out seating assignments that were amenable to everybody, asking me if I’d be comfortable in a compartment with an Indian family – only 1 wall and 2 feet away from the other women. She said I seemed to be “adventurous,” a compliment I readily accepted, since I don’t see myself that way. I am a wannabe adventurer – an understandable complex if you knew my friends who fearlessly wander to all parts of the globe.

Before 9 o’clock, everyone on the night train sits on the lower bunks to chat. The other three bunks in my section were occupied by a mother in a sari and bangles; the father, a man with a bright intelligent face; and a very well behaved little boy playing on a hand-held game and asking his mother questions in English and Hindi. I sat down on the lower bunk with my journal, jotting down notes and filling in the blanks of the last two days, when the father asks me where I’m from, what I do, and how far I got in school (I have a feeling that my lack of a masters degree was disappointing). When I replied that I was a writer – I was only just starting to be comfortable with that declaration – he perked up. “My wife is a journalist in Hindi.” The mother joined in the conversation at that point – she is a journalist covering current affairs and health for a Hindi publication, and their son is an anchor-boy for a children’s news program. The father is a Humanities professor at a local university, and Varanasi is their home. What are the odds of sitting next to a female journalist on a train trip in India?

I admired the mother’s bangle - swirls of yellow, red, blue and green with reflective diamond shapes all the way around. She said “I have plenty” and dug around in her purse, pulling out two more. She insisted that I take one, but it quickly became apparent that my giant western monster-hands would not take a delicate bangle. She insisted that it would go on, and over the next three minutes she molded, squeezed, massaged and mangled my left hand until the bangle slid over and landed on my wrist (which is thankfully thin). I was amazed – there is a technique to bangles and this woman was a master. I accepted the fact that the only way the bangle was ever coming off is if it disintegrated of its own accord – I loved it.

The father/professor answered my questions on Varanasi, telling me that it is one of the holiest Hindu cities, full of art and culture. He and his wife also assured me that no one has ever fallen out of the top bunk on a train, and I suggested that I might be the first.

It was a very narrow bunk with no railing and feels very high up off the ground. I pushed my purse and sandals to the wall when it was time to sleep. I wrapped my legs around the bags and covered them and myself with a brown blanket provided by the train. Thieves walk up and down train hallways during the night looking to steal belongings from sleeping passengers, so it’s best to keep everything tucked as far away from the edge of the bunk as possible. I use the duffel as a pillow and covered my head with one of my newly acquired scarves for extra warmth. Only my nose peeped out.

An hour after lights-out, just when I began to doze, an official in military dress pushed aside the curtain and entered the compartment. He was checking assignments, paying special attention to foreign (white) travelers, but the Indian mother didn’t let him get half a sentence out before she started bombarding him with Hindi. If you’ve ever seen birds defend their nest against a crow, you might have an idea of what I was witnessing. For fifteen minutes she argued and berated, it was the auditory equivalent of machine gun fire, but without pauses to reload. Frustrated, the man left to bother the other passengers, and my defender returned to her bunk under mine. I have no idea what that was about, but even though the entire scene was in Hindi, I got the gist. It was about me, and officials who like to push white women travelers around, and that Indian mother was having none of it.

My Very Own Press Release!

2010-03-24T17:04:00.000-07:00

We interrupt the (ir)regularly scheduled India Blogs to bring you this piece of VERY EXCITING NEWS!

One of my regular gigs is writing for the college website, StudentStuff.com, and I came up with an idea two weeks ago for a series of posts called Major Breakthrough. I am interviewing recent grads about why they chose their majors, and if they have found jobs right after college that use their majors.

I am really excited about this series, and not just because it's mine. I haven't found any other book or article that focuses on recent graduates' opinions of their majors and their job prospects upon graduation. Recent is important because these are the young adults who have gone through the current system and are struggling in this job market. Anyone can find already successful people and ask them what their majors were, but interveiwing early 20-somethings who are just finding out the ramifications of their majors on their post-college lives is unique.

Here is the press release about my project as it is posted on PitchEngine.com: Choosing a Major Made Easy with New Web Series.

And here are links to the two Major Breakthroughs that have been posted so far - a new one goes up every Monday:

Major Breakthrough: Why I Majored in Camping

Major Breakthrough: When you Major in Biology, you Major in Life

Pasta Italiano in Delhi

2010-03-22T19:19:00.000-07:00

Connaught Circle looks like the British colonial version of a shopping mall that has been bombed out and left to rot. Formerly white pillars hold up peeling stores and the streets are dirt; the inside may be modern but the outside hasn’t seen paint or repairs since the British left. Connaught Circle is one of the main shopping malls in Delhi and our destination for lunch after shopping at Dilli Haat.

The blocks of Connaught Circle are labeled alphabetically, sort of. You might find that M block is next to E block, for instance. It doesn’t help that most anyone you ask for directions will tell you that wherever you’re going is “closed” due to some made-up reason or other, but you should try this other place down the street… Truth is a moving target in India.

We eventually found our lunch place on M block at a restaurant owned by a friend of Sumitra (Beth’s tour partner in India – that’s not a perfectly accurate description of Sumitra’s role but it will have to do). Sumitra’s friend thought we might like food that was easier on western stomachs since we would be spending 12 hours on a train to Varanasi that night. So she had her chefs make us something special, off the menu: Pasta Italiano! With garlic bread and virgin mojitos.

And I have to say, everything was incredibly good. I think Indian and Italian cooking go very well together. It was incredibly sweet and considerate of her to make special Italian food for us, and it was some of the best food we had on the trip (and we had some really good food). I wish I had written down the name of the restaurant because I’d love to give them a shout-out.

After lunch, half of us went searching for FabIndia, also in Connought Place. I had been waiting to get to this store since I landed. Prices are fixed, so no haggling, and everything was reasonable: like $6-$7 for a scarf, maybe a little more for a shirt. I went a little crazy, practically buying a whole wardrobe of long tunics, a skirt, another scarf (please don’t try to keep count, I didn’t). It all came with me on the train to Varanasi because I couldn’t fit all of it into the suitcase I left at the hotel (we’re coming back to the Park Hotel after Varanasi so many ladies opted to leave their larger bags there and bring smaller bags with us for the short trip).

That night, we took the overnight train to Varanasi…

*The picture is not mine. I sadly didn't get a picture of Connaught Circle.

Dilli Haat and the Bargaining Dilettant

2010-03-11T20:09:00.000-08:00

Sarah is a shopping Goddess – I’m sure she has been added to the Hindu pantheon by now. Just look for the statue of a petite vivacious blonde deity carrying packs of scarves and bangles. I think she single-handedly brought the idea of discounts for buying-in-bulk to the markets of India by grabbing handfuls of figurines, showing them to the merchants and saying through an enormous smile: "I'm getting all of these, so I think you should give me a special price." Sarah is one of the ladies on the trip, the CEO of a non-profit fundraising company where she professionally persuades people to donate their money and feel good about it. She is one of those rare people who can make everyone fall in love with her without trying. These, incidentally, are great skills for bargaining.

I first saw her in action while trying out my own haggling skills at Dilli Haat, an open air market in the middle of Delhi. For my part, I fought hard for my silver bangles, eight scarves, silver cobra arm band (that I fully intend to wear, someday), and two anklets with matching necklaces for my little sisters. However, the fact that I failed to record the price paid in my travel journal suggests that I was too embarrassed to write down the hard numerical truth. I’m sure everyone who leaves Dilli Haat market fancies themselves a good bargainer. After all, the salesmen look so pained if you manage to haggle them down by a few rupees. But, I am pretty certain that we all got fleeced. Except, very possibly, for Sarah.

Sarah had the right perspective on haggling. She knew that she would get the tourist price, but I think she enjoyed the challenge of seeing how far she could whittle it down. In the end, it was all about whether she enjoyed her time and was happy with the price she paid.

Dilli Haat allows for maximum haggling enjoyment. The small entrance fee keeps out beggars and pickpockets, making the place disarmingly deserted. It’s a nice place to walk around; It’s what you picture India will be like before you get there.

Tourists like to test the bargaining waters at Dilli Haat and I saw a number of Europeans wandering around. European and Australian tourists in India all have this dust-covered, unwashed, tan-faced, chic look. They look worldly. They look like Lawrence of Arabia or Lara Croft. They look sexy. I was jealous. It’s enough to make a girl go out and buy khakis and a tight shirt, and then roll in the dirt (that seems to be the dress code).

After scarf number six, I tried to stop buying. But when I was beckoned by a scarf seller who was my age, cute, and spoke fluent English – I stopped trying.

He showed me scarves that were entirely hand-stitched, with stitching so fine that the design looked printed on them from only two feet away. He told me his own grandmother worked on one for eleven months, but they usually take nine months to complete. I also learned that he liked “Obama better than Boosh.” He was so much fun to talk to, and I could tell he was enjoying himself also. I told him where I was from, he told me about his family business making textiles and running the stall. What struck me most was how intelligent, articulate and confident he was, in a totally Westernized way. He reminded me a little of one of my cousins actually, something about his casual-cool.

But, when it was time for bargaining, I got down to business. He asked what I paid for the other scarves I bought, and I happily told him a price that was a few hundred rupees less than I actually paid. I sheepishly told him that I probably paid too much for them, silly tourist that I am. So he offered 300 rupees below the price I quoted. This may seem shady, it may look like lying, but believe me all is fair in haggling. Don’t worry, he still made a profit. It’s like gambling in Vegas: The house always wins, but it’s still a lot of fun.

*I found this excellent article on how to haggle - so if you want to know how to do it, click Here.

The flash dance, and being “followed”

2010-03-08T01:49:00.000-08:00

October 17th, continued and finally finished

Buildings intended for tourists are built like mini-fortresses. You’d think they were embassies instead of hotels and restaurants. The barriers are necessary however, and getting out of the chaos of the streets is worth the lapse in egalitarianism.

For lunch, we went to a restaurant in the middle of a stone courtyard with benches and white chairs surrounded with tropical large-leafed plants. A walled garden. Our group was led down to a room with chairs set up facing a dance floor and the guide explained that we were being treated to a pre-lunch show of traditional dance. Pictures were Ok.

Three female dancers, young Asian women with beatific smiles, spun and waved their hands in graceful, yet aerobic, motions. Then a petite young man wearing a bright blue and gold costume walked onstage and set up three bicycle wheels and a silver tray. His smile was enormous and proud. He looked at us, smiling and exuding pride in his performance and the sheer joy of doing it. American Idol contestants could learn a lot from him on how to connect with an audience. His lively, dark, almond eyes connected with each of ours as he struck a pose and began spinning the silver tray on one finger. Then he picked up one of the bicycle wheels and began spinning that, resting it – still spinning rapidly – on his chin. He had to tilt his head back for this, and it was the only time during his act that he lost eye-contact with us.

Then it was back to spinning trays and wheels on each upturned palm, now and then on top of his head, and all the time he acted like he was having a blast. He was so in his element that the spinning appeared to take no concentration at all. It was effortless. His attention was on us, and my attention was completely given to him. Even now, I am half in love with him. And that is the effect every great performance should have.

Remember when the guide said “taking pictures is Ok”? In my opinion, using flash photography in a dark room aimed at a guy spinning a wheel on his chin is unappreciative, not to mention potentially dangerous. I can sympathize with the desire to capture the experience on film, but when your eye is stuck in a viewfinder, you can’t really appreciate, or be in, the moment. And performance art is about fully involving yourself in the moment, suspending disbelief and allowing yourself to be wrapped in someone else’s world of magic and amazement. You cannot do that with a camera stuck to your nose!

The cameras did make us laugh though – one woman recorded one of the dances on film and, during a brief break, played it back to make sure it worked. The woman in charge of playing and stopping the music records for the dancers was completely baffled by the sound. The poor woman thought her machine was broken until she saw the camera. I think she shook her head and laughed.

After a few more traditional dances with the three girls and young man in varying combinations, the dancers asked us to come up and try a dance with them, using sticks as percussion instruments. I am generally terrified of audience participation-type shows, and demurred when one of the girls motioned with a stick to come and join. Then the beautiful young man handed me two sticks, and I could deny him nothing.

So we all danced very clumsily next to our graceful hosts, completely embarrassed at first, then warming to the patterns and remembering how to play. We were all kindergartners again, following the leaders. And isn’t it fantastic that grownup women can do that? In a foreign country, aren’t all travelers much like children? Everything is new, exciting and unknown.

The afternoon finished with henna artists drawing swirls and flowers on our hands. The henna artists were dark young women in jewel-tone saris, with feet encrusted in black. They were accomplished artists, swirling and dotting organic designs like vines and flowers so quickly, as if it were nothing. We just had the on-the-go version, but henna designs can be very intricately detailed and are painted all over the palms and backs of the hands.

I’ve never played with henna before, so I was surprised that it comes in a thick dark brown paste squeezed out of a pointed tube. The paste dries to a crust on your hand and you let it flake off on its own. The stain is a light carnelian orange. You can use black tea bags to darken it, and lemon to make it last longer. I liked the effect so much that I asked for a henna kit for Christmas – I still need to try it out for myself; maybe with my two little sisters also. They love activities that involve mess.

-----------------------------------------------------

Later in the day, between lunch and dinner, Beth (our fearless leader) and I struck out to try to find internet. I still hadn’t been able to contact my anxious mother from India, so I wanted to reassure her that I was alive. With crusty henna still drying on my hands, we walked out the high prickly fence of our hotel-fortress and turned the corner. Beth had heard that there was an internet café nearby that cost a lot less than the ridiculous rates our hotel charged to use their computers (and I mean ridiculous by London standards, much less Delhi).

As we walked, Beth pointed to a man in front of us and said to me in a low voice “that man is following us.” You would think that in order to follow someone, you would have to be behind them. But the street men of Delhi have caught onto that expectation, and they follow in front of you. That way, if you choose to go into a shop, the man will have gotten there first and will happily tell the shopkeeper that he brought the foreigners in and deserves a “finder’s fee.” Beth, being an expert traveler and hailing originally from New Jersey, had no problem asserting herself in this situation. I mention that she is from New Jersey, because in my experience, women who come from NJ and NY are extremely nice, and just as extremely assertive. She yelled at the guy to stop following us and left no doubt that she was on to him. This didn’t deter him in the slightest, but at least he knew that we were aware of what was going on. I never would have noticed him if Beth hadn’t pointed him out. I think in that moment, I took a big stride towards being a better, smarter, more assertive traveler. I always try to be very aware of my surroundings, but this opened up my mind and my eyes to the unexpected. And in India, it’s all unexpected.

The Bahá'í Lotus Temple

2010-03-07T18:57:00.000-08:00

October 17th 2009 afternoon continued

After the Qutb complex, we dodged the street sellers and filed back into the bus that took us through the weave of Delhi highways to the Bahá'í Lotus Temple. We walked the long brick path to the temple sharing what little we collectively knew about the Bahai faith. I will consult a higher authority on that now: Wikipedia.

In the Bahá'í Faith, religious history is seen to have unfolded through a series of divine messengers, each of whom established a religion that was suited to the needs of the time and the capacity of the people. These messengers have included Abraham, Buddha, Jesus, Muhammad and others.

Bahá'í notions of progressive religious revelation result in their accepting the validity of most of the world's religions, whose founders and central figures are seen as Manifestations of God. Religious history is interpreted as a series of dispensations, where each manifestation brings a somewhat broader and more advanced revelation, suited for the time and place in which it was expressed.

Humanity is understood to be in a process of collective evolution, and the need of the present time is for the gradual establishment of peace, justice and unity on a global scale.

I like the idea that the world is collectively evolving and that each religion is a reflection of what populations and civilizations needed in their times. I like that Bahais are accepting of different religions. But what I find very interesting about the Bahai faith is that almost all of its followers are highly educated and are also usually well-off. This has nothing to do with the story, but I thought a little background might be interesting.

Once we reach the steps of the temple in our bare feet, we are instructed in multiple languages to not speak once inside. No cameras, no talking, just peace, prayer and meditation. Everyone is welcome to visit the temple, and sit, pray, meditate, or just absorb the tranquility after the maddening streets of the city.

The temple is built in the shape of a lotus, a reminder that one can rise from humble beginnings. The lotus flower grows out of mud, the stalk rising above the muck to end in a perfect bloom. This is an especially poignant image in India.

As we are driven around Delhi, women, babies and children tap on the bus windows and ask for money. Many make the graceful motions of putting imaginary food to their lips, almost like a dance of hunger. We see people living their lives on streets and under overpasses, but the homeless people here are very different from the ones I’ve seen in the U.S.

The U.S. homeless are almost always insane, mentally handicapped, emotionally disturbed and/or have drug addictions. They are mentally incapable of working. But the women here are young and beautiful. They are just uneducated. Their society, religion and background, everyone they’ve ever met, have told them that this is their lot in life and that’s it. Beth says the caste system, now officially banned but still evident, is largely to blame for that paradigm.

The first thought a westerner might have is “why doesn’t someone just go out and tell them they can do better, find a job, educate themselves, stop having so many children?” Because surely, if these women were told this, they would try to improve their lives. But imagine that someone with all the conviction of a zealot told you that your paradigm was wrong, and that you had no hope of ever changing your life situation. Being an American, or westerner, you would look at that person as if he were crazy, or an idiot. Reaching for success is so ingrained in our culture, particularly the American culture, that this mentality of passive helplessness is inconceivable to us. But, that’s India. Or at least, that is one part of India.

The Qutb Complex

2010-02-07T22:14:00.000-08:00

October 17th, 2009 afternoon

Everytime we drive around Delhi, it feels like the roadways were planned along the lines of a celtic knot. I think we went in circles nearly every time we left the hotel until the driver eventually found the gap in the loop. The drive from India Gate to the Qutb Complex was like that.

I only just learned the name of these ruins, and I was able to find them (as opposed to the bajillion other ruins around Delhi) because I remembered the pillar.

The pillar has an amazing story, which I will butcher without the help of Wikipedia. So before I start quoting more knowledgeable sources (Wiki), I’ll just say that it might be extraterrestrial. Seriously.

The scholars of Wiki write that the pillar may have been created as early as 912 BCE and stood at the center of a Jain temple complex of 27 temples. Stones from those temples were defaced – literally, faces were scratched out by the Muslim conquerors – and used to build the Qutb complex where the pillar still stands, unmoved. The 7 meter tall, 6 ton pillar is 98% wrought iron and has withstood corrosion for over 1,600 years without shelter. Archaeologists and metallurgists can’t explain it.

And, it was by this pillar that I found out the name of where we went minutes before I put up this post. In my travel journal, it is merely described as “red stone ruins” which do not do it justice. “Indiana Jones level of awesome” is a far better descriptor.

Our tour guide spouts numbers, they all spout numbers. Tour guides may as well be out of work accountants for all the numbers they know. I can’t remember any of them. What I remember are the pillars at the entrance to a large stone courtyard. These stone pillars were built out of stones reused from the Hindu and Jain temples that used to stand at the site before the Muslims came and were offended by depictions of people and foreign gods. They took the temples apart like kids with Lego castles and built their own places of worship and monuments to their own greatness. Maybe it gave them satisfaction to walk halls where conquered gods danced headless around them.

One can’t help but wonder what the carvings looked like when they were new.

The complex is huge with wide open spaces, crumbling walls, and stone steps to grassy lawns that have grown over what used to be there. Families from all over India come to see it. And a few adventurous Europeans. And us: a group of mostly middle-aged white American women. I quickly came to understand that ruins are a dime a dozen, but a bunch of white women – that’s what you want your picture taken next to if you’re a family from rural India.

After being hounded by beggars, taxi wallahs, and pushy salesmen, meeting people who wanted nothing more than a picture was a striking contrast. They were so nice, so entertained to see us. They thought we were great. If you ever want to know what it feels like to be a celebrity, just travel to India where you become the main attraction (no matter what World Heritage Site you’re standing in front of). I’m not saying this to be condescending in any way. It was just strange. And they were so nice about it. Our guide joked that pictures of us would be hanging in every one of their living rooms and they would invite people over to tell them about their new American friends. I still don’t know how to take that.

A funny story about the ruins: There is a giant red tower that reaches far above the highest point of the ruins. It’s called the Qutb Minar. Across a grassy courtyard from the Qutb Minar is a pile of red bricks that used to be a second tower. The story goes that a later conqueror wanted to build a tower taller than the Qutb Minar, right across from it. But when the second tower was almost completed, a massive earthquake leveled it. The Qutb Minar was completely undamaged. India is a humbling experience for everyone.

As our group was leaving, our guide for the past two days offered to take a group picture of us outside the gate to the ruin. He took all of our cameras and just when he was about to shoot the first picture, an Indian family jumped in with their small children, asking without a word of English, if they could take pictures of their kids posing with all of us white women. The mother pressed her baby girl into Susan’s arms (she’s a nurse and loves children). The baby was totally chill with this, like it happened all the time, and they snapped photos of us while our guide snapped photos of us and them. Eventually we all posed together having gained new extended family members. On the street it is easy to forget that a lot of Indian people are genuinely good, kind and not out to take advantage of foreigners. This random family thought it was so cool that we were there, and we thought it was so cool that they were there. So different and enjoying those differences so much.

India Gate

2010-02-06T15:36:00.000-08:00

India, October 17th 2009 Morning

I don’t know which was worse: the traffic congestion on the streets of Delhi during the evening rush, or the rush of congestion that left me with three to four hours of sleep last night. The sheer adrenaline of travel is keeping me upright and cheerful however.

India Gate

Think of a simpler Arc de Triomphe – a giant white marble arch with INDIA GATE etched in large letters at the top. This is the first landmark I remember seeing in Delhi. It’s a war memorial commemorating 90,000 soldiers who fought for the British Empire in World War 1 and the Afghan wars. It is also the first place our large air-conditioned tour bus stopped to let us off for picture taking.

The monument was across the 4 lane street from us, in the middle of a grassy park. To get up close required a game of dodge the speeding Indian cars, running from one side to the center divider, and then running again to the sidewalk of the park. Stragglers faced death. Well, ok, not certain death, but no one dared to test the theory by walking slowly either.

Surrounding the monument were petite, dark, smiling men selling toys. Now, let me backtrack a little…

At UCLA, my Alma Mater, we had Bruin Walk: a path that lead from the dorm side of campus to the class side of campus. Lining and frequently blocking this path were people selling things, handing out coupons, advertisements, and manifestos, asking “excuse me, do you have a minute?” I hated this from the first second and vowed – yes, vowed – to never take a flyer. Ever. It requires discipline to not reach out and take something if it is thrust at you. This might seem silly, but training myself to ignore people who tried to pull my attention and sympathies was vital for India. Thank you LA, you have prepared me to fight off street vendors and beggars in third world countries.

Some of the other women on the trip were softer touches. It was not good. Here’s what happened:

We walked in a group to India Gate, taking pictures, being tourists. The toy salesmen (for lack of a better word – if anyone knows a better word for pesky street salesmen, please tell me because they’ll come up a lot in these posts) – anyways, the toy salesmen came at us like so many seagulls around a beach picnic. Middle aged tourists were their chapatis and ghee (read: bread and butter). Don’t make eye contact, utter quiet “no”s followed by louder, more assertive ones if necessary, they all know enough English to understand “no” and “how much,” though they only pay attention to the latter. They give up on me quickly, but as soon as one woman stops to look at their wares – and then buys a few small cheap plastic toys for the young children in her family, that’s when all the circling seagulls descend.

I’ll map the action in terms of distance from India Gate. Under the gate, the dozen men were displaying their toys, explaining how they worked, offering prices. Each man picked out a target and stuck to her. Twenty feet away from the gate, prices started fluctuating drastically. The women who bought toys under the gate suddenly found they paid three times as much as the current price. We thought the men would give up at the sidewalk of the street, but they braved the traffic to chase us all the way back to the bus, waving toys and tapping at the windows.

It’s one of those stories that you laugh at a few months after it happens, but in the moment, I was out of patience with my bewildered companions. “Ignore pretty much everyone” was ingrained in me from working in L.A. for two years—it’s the only thing you can do to protect yourself. But, treating people (even rude people) as if they don’t exist leaves me with a nasty feeling in the middle of my chest, like a piece of moldy bread is lodged under my sternum. It’s a necessary skill, but I wish it wasn’t.

Once in the bus, Beth and our guide for the day repeated their warnings not to interact with the street salesmen, this time to a group who paid rapt attention and affirmed the wisdom with nods of experience.

I didn't get pictures of the men - they probably would have tried to charge me for them, but I did get these pictures of a family in the park and a woman employed in raking leaves.

Blogs delayed

2010-01-04T13:22:00.000-08:00

The goal of daily posting has already gone by the wayside, and I fear it will continue in that wayward direction this month. I have a ton of writing to do - for pay - and that must take precedence over transcribing my travel journal. I will post as often as possible though, so keep checking back.

Meanwhile - I just found this quote today and I love it:

“Adventure is a path. Real adventure – self-determined, self-motivated, often risky – forces you to have firsthand encounters with the world. The world the way it is, not the way you imagine it. Your body will collide with the earth and you will bear witness. In this way you will be compelled to grapple with the limitless kindness and bottomless cruelty of humankind – and perhaps realize that you yourself are capable of both. This will change you. Nothing will ever again be black-and-white.” – Mark Jenkins

The Story of Yule - a fairly factual account

2009-12-24T13:02:00.000-08:00

We interrupt the regularly scheduled travel blogs to bring you my annual Christmas story:

Many centuries ago, in a faraway, densely wooded land with picturesque rivers, lakes and corpse-filled peat bogs, the happy Celts sang, danced and sacrificed animals to celebrate the return of the Sun in late December. They lit giant fires, hung decorations on trees, laid out presents for the gods and made their little part of Europe pleasant and gay so the Sun would return from its celestial holiday to warm the frozen ground.

One day, a boat appeared on the horizon. This had happened before, so the native Celts knew what to expect: rape, pillage, and attractive blonde and blue-eyed babies. But this boat was different, less decorated. There was no fierce wooden dragon leading the way on the prow. Perhaps the Vikings were going through a modern, minimalist period of boat design, they thought.

Instead of the strapping, muscular, Arian eye-candy that usually jumped off the boats into the icy surf, two men in plain brown woolen robes slogged up the shore. They carried no weapons, so the Celts generously decided not to skewer them on the spot.

As to what went through the minds of the two robed and soggy men, it went something like this: I’m freezing cold and wet for God. Doing this for God. Hope I don’t lose a toe to frostbite, it would be really hard to wear sandals then. HOLY SHIT there is an army of buck-naked men wearing gold jewelry staring us down. I am not gay, dear God I am not gay.

Vikings had come before, rival tribes had come before, but what the fuck were these two guys doing, thought the Celtic chief. They weren’t undressed for war. They had no weapons. They wouldn’t last long. But, it was almost Yule, and the chief was in a good mood brought on by mead and mildly hallucinogenic wheat mold. He was inclined to be generous.

So the Christian missionaries came and stayed.

It has been said that both guests and fish begin to stink after three days, and the missionaries stayed a lot longer than that. Every year they tried to talk the Celts out of their pagan festivities.

They looked upon the wintry festival of the Sun's rebirth and were appalled at the wild behavior of the pagan partiers. The missionaries glared at the scantily clad men and women leaping around fires and toiling on richly detailed stone and metal decorations. Every year when the party was just getting started, the leader of the Christian missionaries would approach the Celtic chief and ask "wouldn't you rather honor one God instead of a whole bunch?” And every year the answer was, “Have some mead and sit down.”

The missionaries tried changing their tactics, “It's economical! You could cut down on your sacrifices and parties and institute a proper work ethic in your people. All this frolicking is not only bad for your eternal soul, but your finances too." Now, partially since the chief was stoned on ceremonial herbs, and partially because he only understood about half of what the foreign guys were telling him, he gave the missionary the old "smile and nod.”

The missionaries weren’t fooled, this wasn’t working. Hoping to feel the humble pride that comes from saving sinners from damnation, the missionaries tirelessly explained about their forgiving merciful God who condemned non-believers to eternal fiery torture and sent his own son to die at the cruel hands of Romans to pay for Man's whoopsey-daisy in The Beginning. The Celts could respect a God who held a grudge, demanded human sacrifice, and got mad easier than a PMSing priestess, but preferred worshipping their own gods who were more amenable to partying. Besides, the Christians advocated Peace on Earth, and playing drums loud enough to make the dirt vibrate and the walls of neighboring huts pulse did not fit the Christian ideal.

One early morning while the tribe members gathered logs and twigs of sacred trees to build a sacred fire around which to throw one helluva holiday bash, the younger missionary had an idea.

To the senior missionary he said, "Hey, we have a Son who was reborn, and that sounds pretty close to the Sun being reborn. Let's just pull the old switcheroo and tell the Celts that they can celebrate Jesus - the Son - in the middle of winter, and then they'll just be zealous believers instead of sinful party animals.”

The senior missionary thought this over, did some math on his fingers and replied: "But Jesus was born a few months ago, we can't have them celebrate his birthday now in the middle of winter... or can we?" A gleam caught in his eye, and a crafty smile played on his bearded lips.

He approached the semi-sober leader of the Celts and said "You know, it just occurred to me that our Savior, a very cool cat who promoted feasting, drinking and blood sacrifices, was born on exactly the same day as your pagan festival-- we even call him The Sun!"

The young missionary stood looking confused, "Don't you mean Son?"
The old missionary removed his elbow from the young man's ribs and continued as smoothly as a used cart salesman. “How about your Sun and our Son getting together? Instead of just worshipping the light ball in the sky, you can worship our guy and get an eternity of heaven in the bargain. There are lots of great parties in heaven." He winked at the younger missionary.

The leader of the Celts thoughtfully twirled the end of his long beard, picking out bits of the previous night's dinner at regular intervals. "Yes, well, that sounds all right. Can we still drink?"

"Oh yes, Jesus LOVED drinking. Did you know he made water into wine? And his last supper was quite the fete. He had all his pals over and they ate, drank, and toyed with the idea of cannibalism."

"Can we still sacrifice?'

"Hey, Jesus was a sacrifice, so we think he'd be for it."

"Can we still have the big tall tree with all the decorations and presents and have the young people make out under the mistletoe?"

"Uh... um... we don't think so,” the young missionary said, uncertainly. He was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable with the whole idea.

"Oh, well then... I think I'll have so say noo..." Said the chief.

"But wait!“ the senior missionary exclaimed, “Jesus liked giving, didn't he? So we can keep those in, and er, he'll probably be ok with it." The cold sweat settled on the missionaries’ faces as they silently prayed that God wouldn't mind trees, decorations and presents too much.

And thus was "Christmas" born and has continued throughout the centuries under very shady and dishonest circumstances.

So Happy Yule to all and to all a Good Night!

Diwali in Delhi

2009-12-23T19:02:00.000-08:00

We went to a Diwali party tonight that was set up for us by Beth’s contact in India, Sumitra. Sumitra runs Women on Wanderlust, a travel company specializing in women only tours around India and the world. Beth says a company like this couldn’t have existed in India ten years ago and it is proof of India’s progress. There is a rising middle class now in which wives and daughters have the money, leisure, and freedom to travel.

The Diwali party was held in the large front garden of an elegant white colonial building. There were clay oil lamps on the ground and white lights strung on every vertical surface. Large white pads – like California King sized futons – were on the ground to sit on once shoes were removed. Men in white kurtas carried silver trays with toothpicks and small bites of deliciously spiced chicken, fish, cheese, potatoes, broccoli and cauliflower. Undoubtedly the best hors d’oeuvres I’ve ever had. There was an open bar, so I decided to investigate Indian red wine. The other ladies liked it, but…happy grapes come from California.

A holy man performed a very long blessing ritual with incense, fire and marigold petals he threw in by the fistful. Then he tied red string around our wrists – the way this was explained to me is that the holy man blesses the string and the wearer makes a wish on it. Only when the wish comes true can the wearer remove the string. I could, however, be completely mistaken, so if there are any experts out there…I don’t want to hear it. I wished for good health for the trip, which failed utterly. That may have been due to user error.

On Diwali, gambling in honor of Lakshimi, the goddess of good fortune, ensures good luck and prosperity for the following year. Sumitra invited some teachers to help us learn an Indian card game called “Flash,” which is like poker with only 3 cards per hand. So there we were, a dozen women sitting on giant futons playing 3-card poker with highly entertained (and patient) teachers, using matchsticks for bets. I ran out of matchsticks embarrassingly fast. Give me Texas Hold’em any day. So there you have it – I went to India to drink and gamble.

Fireworks are a huge part of Diwali, and the young men at this party were quite literally having a blast. One would sink a firecracker into the lawn, run to get a lit match, run back to the firecracker, light the fuse and LEAP backwards to avoid getting hit by the explosion. Some of the guys handed out sparklers to the ladies. Others created a mine field of firecrackers at the gate to the yard and around the driveway, setting them off in such rapid succession that it sounded like machine gun fire. It doesn’t matter where in the world you are, boys will be fire hazards.

I sat down at a table on the lawn with Melany and the Australian woman and listened to their conversation on being happily single. The Australian woman, in her 60s and absolutely stunning with 9 grandchildren, has multiple boyfriends at any given time. She goes out to dances and political balls regularly and has to beat men off with a stick. “They all want to get married!” she complains. She never wants to be married again, loves her autonomy, and says “I’m the king!” Melany has a similar opinion: men are fun as long as you can send them back home when you’re sick of them. They both agree that they no longer have the patience to compromise or to be anything other than blunt. I can just picture these pitiful 60 year old men trailing after them like puppies, whining “but why wouldn’t you want to get married?” Because it’s too much damned work, and these gals have been there and done that. Melany and the Australian laughingly apologize for sharing this wisdom with an innocent 25 year old, but I explain that as a child of divorce, I can understand how a dog and a gardener can easily take the place of a husband. Even a dog is too much work for the Australian, she likes her freedom. But Melany agrees – she has a dog. I’m certainly getting different perspectives on dating on this trip. And none of it is very complimentary to men.

Don’t worry, I still like men. But then, I’m 25 and don’t know any better.

The Eve of Diwali

2009-12-21T16:00:00.000-08:00

October 16th

It’s the night before Diwali and I can hear fireworks popping outside the window of my room at the fancy Park hotel in Connaught Circle. My roommate, Melany, and I met the rest of the group today – all very nice women, mostly in their 50s and 60s. Most work in or own successful businesses, many are single or divorced.

When I was telling friends in Oxford about my tour with women our mothers’ age, the general reaction was a good humored “that’ll be a story in itself!” But, as an only child raised in a primarily adult environment, it feels perfectly normal to me. And being among so many independent adventurous women is kind of empowering.

Earlier today we went to Humayun’s tomb – which was beautiful and exotic, exactly as you’d expect. A little history: it was built out of red sandstone in 1532 by a Mughal emperor’s wife (Mughal = Persian conqueror), and is the first “garden tomb” in India.

Then we went to a shrine: a labyrinth of marble-floored narrow alleyways. Beggars and sleeping children lined the walls. The little boys were quite cheeky. They greeted us with a chorus of cheerful “Hello!”s. When one of the women took out her camera, the nearest boy posed, arms outstretched with a giant grin. Cuteness like that well deserved a few rupees, but knowing that many of them are under the control of slum gangs, I was hesitant to interact with, much less finance them. Indians are strikingly beautiful people. Even the beggar women with their skinny babies are beautiful with delicate bone structure and large dark eyes. In India, more so than in any other place I’ve been, the best pictures are of people. Just take pictures of the people and you’ll come out with photographs worthy of National Geographic.

Before entering the shrine we had to take off our sandals and leave them at the entrance. Walking barefoot on hard floors dotted and smeared with wet excrement and stepping in it on the way to a sacred site is almost a microcosm of India as a whole. It’s a place of extremes.

I think I’ve come to India remarkably well prepared. I came with few expectations: I expected inconvenience and discomfort; I expected pushy salesmen; I expected beggars with infants pulling at me; I expected to get ripped off, regularly. If it takes an hour for the hotel clerks to check me in – it’s India. If we get the wrong kind of room every single check-in – it’s India. If it takes another hour just to pay for a purchase and another 30 minutes to get change (if you can get any at all) – it’s India. I say all of this because a few of the women on the trip haven’t quite attained the level of Zen required for this country. Though there are a number who are utterly uncomplaining – bless them. I figure, just accept that nothing is logical, nothing makes sense, and everything takes far longer than it should. Then enjoy the good parts.

Whenever I travel somewhere really cool or beautiful, I always think “I wish my boyfriend was here to see this.” But not in India. He would hate India. First, because walking around barefoot in shit would freak him out on a phobic level, but mostly because he would have no control here, over anything. You have to go with the flow or exist in a constant state of angst and irritation. My boyfriend is very logical and very stubborn. He has fixed notions on how things should be. You can’t do that here. You can’t bring those expectations here. You can’t come in thinking that if they made you King of India for a day, that you could sort the place out in a jiffy – and yet, as an American, or as a Westerner, it is so tempting to think just that.

India

2009-12-19T00:23:00.000-08:00

October 15th

I am learning an entirely new philosophy of driving. Lines on the road are mere suggestions and vehicles often drive right down the middle of them (though not straight down the middle, no one drives straight). Changing lanes is more like swerving to avoid hitting motorcycles. There are a lot of motorcycles, and what cracks me up is the women riding side-saddle on the back of them in their beautiful sparkling saris, completely relaxed and unconcerned that they’ve almost been rear ended five times within the last five minutes. Saris on the backs of motorbikes, fluttering in the wind. Amazing.

My taxi driver picked me up from the arrivals gate and ushered me past the taxi wallahs waiting outside so fast that I didn’t have time to find an ATM, not that I saw one. So I arrived at the Grand Godwin Hotel in Delhi with a $1 bill and a $5 bill in my pocket, U.S. currency. I gave the taxi driver the dollar (U.S. money is often accepted here) and checked in. My roommate had not arrived yet even though she was supposed to be here yesterday. At least she was able to arrange my pickup at the airport.

In a flash, one of the bell boys, or coolies, grabbed my bag and I followed him up to the room. The only money I had on me then was the $5 bill, which was way too much, and a 10 rupee note given to me for luck by a well traveled friend before I left. Thanks Dr. Jensen! It was definitely lucky I had that 10 rupees to give the bell boy; tips are serious business here.

I explored the bathroom, thanking God for a western style toilet. But the shower was baffling. There were a few plastic buckets under a faucet, above that was a shower head, and there was a drain in the floor. No shower stall, bathtub or even ridge to keep the water from flooding the place. There was a half-hearted attempt at a shower curtain. So even though I had been dreaming about a steamy hot shower to sooth my aching and very sick body, I couldn't bring myself to royally mess up the bathroom before my roommate got here. I could just imagine her stepping into a flood while trying to use the toilet.

My water bottle, last filled at Heathrow, had a couple mouthfuls of water left. I took a rationed gulp and crawled under the covers of the Queen sized bed. The air conditioner was on full blast and I was shivering. Throughout the week of freezing cold nights in Oxford, I dreamt of 90+ degrees India. And here I was freezing again. Sigh.

When I woke up, I drank the rest of the water and quickly realized that I would become more sick very quickly if I wasn't hydrated. After an hour of praying to the Gods that the American voices I heard in the hallway belonged to my roommate, I gave up hope of rescue. I just wanted to hole up in the safe little room – but I needed water. So I went to the lobby and spent fifteen minutes misunderstanding the concierge in every possible linguistic way. All I wanted was water. I didn't want it brought to me because then I would probably have to tip and I had no money. I explained my problem to the concierge and he told me to wait on the couch and someone would take me to the ATM since it was a busy and dangerous time of night.

A kindly young Indian man, clearly used to reassuring freaked out, lost, uncomprehending and incomprehensible tourists, took me across the street – holding his arm out more than once to prevent me from getting run over – and haggled with two rickshaw drivers. Yes, rickshaws. Bicycle rickshaws specifically. It turned out that the ATM was a long walk under good traffic conditions, but at this time of night a rickshaw was our only chance of survival.

Traveling in that rickshaw for 2 blocks was the most frightening experience I have ever had in my life. Never have I felt honestly afraid for my physical body. Never before has death seemed a real possibility. Most of the light on the street came from the 4 stories tall neon hotel signs on almost every building. Vehicles darted in and out, dodging other rickshaws, taxis, small motorized rickshaws and bicyclists. The ATM was literally a small hole in the wall. My guide from the hotel pushed our way in and guarded me while I fumbled with my card and punched in my numbers. I took out enough money to pay for my hotel room in cash, which turned out to be very wise since cash was all the hotel accepted.

My roommate called me late that night. Her plane was delayed in Chicago, and she was getting her own room in the hotel. We met for breakfast the next morning on the rooftop of the Grand Godwin and shared a cab to the next hotel, the one from which our tour would start.

Flying over Pakistan

2009-12-18T12:00:00.001-08:00

October 15th

It’s 4am England time and I am flying over the surface of the moon – or insert strange barren planet – also known as Pakistan. I see sand, rock, and hard packed ground that may have had water there once. That last sentence makes me think about how NASA bombed the moon to see if there was any ice locked beneath the rock.

Now, layers of mountain ranges that go on forever emerge from mist. I think I can make out a town because there are little house-shaped mounds forming a square. But it might just as easily be the result of erosion. Now I see the patchwork of agriculture, except everything is still brown. There is one ridge that looks like a giant iguana lying flat out in the sun. The cracks in the earth make shapes like barren tree branches, and there are long curving ridges that stretch to the horizon. The last few are sand dunes that give way to a great flat expanse patterned like alligator hide.

Forgive me for using a thousand words instead of a picture. My camera is in my bag at my feet, which I can’t get to since the seat tray is down, and the flight attendants take an hour to clear away food. Today’s fare is airline food at its worst: a gherkin, cheese, tomato and cucumber sandwich. It tastes vaguely like tuna fish. I eat half anyway (I really will eat just about anything). The dinner, served last night from 11 to 12am, as if that makes any sense, was a delicious curry, rice and lentil dish that made my throat and now persistent cough feel much better.

The TV screen in front of me doesn’t work. But, despite my Indian friend’s predictions of doom-by-Air India, the plane ride still isn’t a bad deal for the price. Then again, I still don’t know whether or not they’ve lost my luggage.

It occurs to me, as I look out the window, that if humans can survive in this landscape, colonizing other planets really shouldn’t be a problem.

October 14th – Air India and other problems

2009-12-18T00:00:00.000-08:00

F-ing Postal Workers

I woke up coughing lungfulls of mucous. Sorry, I know that’s a terrible image. My head hurt, my eyebrows hurt, my teeth hurt. I crawled out of bed around noon and showered in water as hot as I could stand, trying to steam out the illness. Xander made me a drink of whiskey, honey, lemon, ginger and hot water that helped enough for me to think myself capable of venturing out.

I decided to try shipping the four mugs, tea, and a few thin booklets I had acquired earlier in the week. The store where I bought the mugs put them in a large, sturdy box which Xander helped me tape, wrap in brown paper, and tape again. I walked the half mile to the post office on Cowley Road.

The line was blessedly short. Post office lines in England can take hours, so I thought I was in luck. I told the postal worker that I wanted to send the box to America, and I put it on the scale for weighing. It was .75 grams overweight. This meant a shipping price of £47. But if I got rid of .75 grams, the price would drop down to £22. I gave the smug little brown man a withering glare meant to convey that I was sick, had a lot to do and not much time to do it in, and that this .75 grams was entirely too ridiculous for me to deal with right then. I didn’t say any of this. I asked “Do you have any tape so I can do this here?” “No” he replied cheerfully. The bastard.

I trekked back the half mile to the house, removed the paper and tape, and with Xander’s help, discovered that .75 grams is exactly the weight of the wrapping paper. Seriously, that is how small the difference was. I took out a couple cards and a thin booklet. Then we wrapped and taped the box again, and I walked the half mile back to the post office.

I'd like to note that upon my return to California, despite careful packing, 2 mugs were broken and the box looked like it had been hit repeatedly with a sledge-hammer. Then sat upon.

I hadn’t eaten anything all day and decided to have one last meat pie with mushy peas, potatoes and gravy at Pie Minister in the Covered Market. Then I went to an internet café on High Street to try and get some work done for my ghost-writing employer. I had to spend a few minutes reassuring Mom that I wasn’t going to catch malaria, typhoid or rabies. Over Gmail chat I promised not to pet any animals and to cover myself with Deet from head to toe. She was very annoyed that I hadn’t pumped myself full of every possible vaccination and anti-malarial.

Air India

LAX is remarkably easy to navigate compared with Heathrow. Maybe it’s just Terminal 3, maybe the other terminals are more organized. In Terminal 3, there are signs that don’t say anything useful. I couldn’t find Air India until I discovered the information booth and asked.

My “carry-on” was too heavy and had to be checked, which I really didn’t want to do considering Air India’s reputation for doing everything badly. My sense of forebodinga was not lessened when the Air India check-in clerk asked me “you don’t have anything too important in there, do you?” Which is NOT a question you want to hear when deciding whether or not to check your suitcase.

The plane boarded over an hour before its scheduled take-off. So even though I arrived at 7pm for a 9:30pm flight, I only had just enough time to fumble through security and find the inconveniently placed drinking fountain to fill up my plastic water bottle.

Then I was on the plane. The moment when the wheels leave the ground, that first moment of feeling nothing but air under me, always makes me grin like an idiot. Every time.

Wrapping up Oxford

2009-12-17T17:18:00.000-08:00

I’m getting some pressure to move on to India, so I’m going to try to please my public (Hi Mom!) and get on with it. But, I have to wrap up Oxford first, because I did some pretty neat stuff outside of pubs and eating myself silly.

I bought my travel journal midway through the week at Scriptum, a magical little store that specializes in Italian leather-bound journals and other writing equipment that could be from the last century. Upstairs they have bookends, Italian Carnivale masks, a fox head, and a model ship, along with used books, notepads, address books, and a few smaller journals. Downstairs is wall to wall gorgeous leather, wrapped around thick stacks of paper, in colors and styles that have been in vogue since forever. Writer friends, I know you love your moleskins, but these are far, far sexier. The store will stamp the leather for you if you want your journal to say something, like “Travels” for instance, but I had too much trouble committing to a genre. Maybe next time.

Later that evening I stumbled upon Evensong at Hertford College. In America, I frankly dislike organized religion – everything about it. The zealots, the nonsensical/insane practices, cannibalistic rituals…I can’t find anything good enough to redeem the bad. But in England, I feel completely differently. In England, religion and aesthetics go hand in hand. Truth is beauty, beauty is truth – Keats could have just as easily said that about English Christianity. It is beautiful. The churches, the music, even the ministers make me believe that the human spirit can transcend the animal and become sublime. Despite all the warm fuzzy feelings I get from English Christianity, it’s still, well, Christianity, and I get a little nervous around it. Going into a chapel, holding a book of Common Praise, standing up and sitting down along with prayers, it all gives me the heebie jeebies. And what if I do something wrong? At least I’m past the stage where I thought priests could read my mind (I was six, it’s not that weird). But as soon as the choir began to sing, I was put at ease. Such incredible beauty. And the minister, a round happy-looking woman, preached a message of acceptance and friendship. Oxford is particularly glorious in its secularism. They take the best parts of God and the best parts of man; zealotry is not allowed to spoil intellectual achievement or community.

Later in the week, Xander, Miranda and I met up with some journalists for drinks at the King’s Arms near the Sheldonian theater. Don’t ask me how Xander knows these people; he knows everybody. One was a reporter for radio, and the other a journalist for the BBC – Jamillah Knowles, if you want to google stalk. Despite my aspirations to become a journalist, I don’t get to hang out with journalists very often (like, at all) so this was a real treat. I didn’t want to come off as a rabid reporter wannabe, so I just let them talk. Lovely people! I love journalists. Intelligent, unpretentious (though that could be because they’re British), interesting, witty…sigh. I want to be a member of that club. Jamillah had just come back from Calcutta, so we got to talking about India. She was in town for a couple days covering the Museum of Science’s Steampunk exhibit and wanted to do a bit of sightseeing on her down time. Since the Pitt Rivers museum was on both of our To Do Lists, we wound up making a plan to go together with Xander as our guide the next day.

We needed a guide. Let me tell you, the Pitt Rivers museum is extremely hard to find. I didn’t even know we were there when we were stepping around giant fake dinosaur footprints in the front lawn. But the museum is worth the search: Skeletons of extinct monsters, touchable stuffed displays of creatures you wouldn’t want to touch if they were alive, cases of shrunken heads and totems. The building itself looks like it was made from the bones of a prehistoric beast.

On my second to last day, I had to check off the remaining items on my To Do list: climbing to the top of St. Mary’s (about a mile of narrow staircases for one of the best views in town – terrifying, tiring, and totally worth it); and taking a walking tour.
Walking tours around Oxford cost around £6.00, the cheapest entertainment in town next to buying a pint. Our guide took us in and out of a few of the colleges around the older parts of Oxford, into quads, dining halls and chapels. And I don’t remember one damned fact from the whole thing. I do remember feeling incredibly humbled and in awe standing beneath the portrait of Lawrence of Arabia (the spitting image of Peter O’Toole) in the dining hall of his old college.

The very last thing on my To Do List was to walk through Christchurch Meadows, the home of the luckiest cows in the world, and the smuggest squirrels.

Meat Pies and Other Staples

2009-12-03T21:08:00.000-08:00

One more post devoted to food. I can't resist.

Inside the Covered Market in Oxford are gourmet groceries galore. There is such pride and care in these stores. One gets the feeling that the butchers have been butchers for generations, that the tea is a legacy, and that Ben's cookies are absolutely the best in town. Ok, that's not a feeling, that's a fact.

Butchers hang fresh kills outside their doors and pile sausages in their windows, and the tea shop stores its tea in 90 year old Chinese canisters.

Now this is the kind of small agriculture I'm talking about. I mean look at it! It's not pre-packaged, it's not plastic-wrapped, it's not in neat little cartons, it's real, honest food that came from a farm, or a field, or - a duck pond. But it came from somewhere nearby, delivered by someone who was proud to have produced it.

Ok, enough of my waxing poetical about raw meat – here is my new favorite place in the world: Pie Minister.
Next to the ancient butcher and tea shops, Pie Minister is jarringly new. But there is nothing more traditional or comforting than a meat pie. And meat pies are all they do – with sides of mashed potatoes and mushy peas. Have I mentioned my unhealthy (literally) fixation on meat pies? Oh how I love them.

And I love all their variations too. Put anyting in a pocket of pastry dough and I'm happy. Incidentally, that is the exact recipe for a Cornish Pasty: anything wrapped in pastry dough. There is a very old joke that the Devil never dared to go into Cornwall for fear of ending up as a filling in a Cornish Pasty - since those Cornish wives would put anything in there.

Before I leave the subject of food, at least in Oxford, let me pay homage to my favorite mocha, found in Puccino's coffee shop just outside the Covered Market.As much as I have touted the improved tastes and culinary skills of the English in these last two posts, sometimes they revert back - behold this version of ... cheese fries with ketchup and mayo? Oh dear God, that's disgusting.

Farmers Market to Table

2009-12-02T19:01:00.000-08:00

I would like to, once and for all, dispel the myth that British food is bad. It was bad. But from when I first went there in 1992, and they poured thick cream over everything and had terrible coffee, to now- Britain has undergone a gastronomic revolution.

The Farm to Table movement has hit big, and not just with CelebriChefs. Xander and Miranda used to have a box of vegetables from the surrounding farms brought to their door once a week by a guy on a bike. Now, they walk a few blocks to the Farmers Market every Saturday.

Their farmers market is small, in the gymnasium of an elementary school, but the vegetables are fresh out of the ground, the bread is unmistakably homemade, and blonde woman with peaches and cream skin sells jams she makes out of berries picked around Oxford – is that not heaven?

England has 350 farmers markets and counting. In London, Borough Market is a weekly foodie event. Xander and Miranda had a CSA before Southern California even knew what one was (many of us still don’t). If you ask me, England is on the cutting edge of the culinary scene which is quickly heading back to small production, family farmers, and free range meat and quality produce. It’s so easy to bandy the term “quality produce” around, so let me take a moment to define it: fruits and vegetables that make the farmer proud because they are the best he can grow. You can’t buy that at a supermarket. Off we went to the glorious farmers market before breakfast or coffee. Which meant that I was Shopping While Hungry. I bought a loaf of crumbly, moist, gorgeous bread, a jar of jam from miscellaneous local berries, and a Greek spinach pie as big as my hand. We walked back via the regular supermarket so Xander and Miranda could finish their weekly shopping, and I was as happy as a pig in mud taking pictures of the exotic offerings.
I love how the Twix "biscuit fingers" comes with "Free Tea with Every Pack". Claim your Cuppa!
The "boozy" pie. In a can.

The walk back to the house was long, so we decided to stop midway at Costa Coffee on Cowley road for some caffeine and The Guardian. Miranda went for the coffee, Xander found the newspaper, and I planted myself at the table – starving. My Greek spinach pastry was looking awfully good. I figured that since we were getting three coffees, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if I ate my pastry. Three bites in and Xander goes out for a cigarette. We have our coffee, lug the groceries home, and I dive into the bread and jam.
Hours later, or maybe the next day, I’m telling them how some of the English peculiarities are surprising me. Like the invisible queuing system in pubs that only the English see and only the bartenders understand. We begin talking about some of the differences in manners one might not expect, and it turns out I committed a horrible faux pas. A faux pas so severe that Xander was driven out in shame to smoke a cigarette: I had eaten a pastry in the coffee shop which had not been bought there. He explains that if an English person had committed this offense, another English person might very well have scolded the perpetrator, ensuring mortification through public embarrassment. But because I ate my pastry in a perfectly natural and entitled way, bystanders likely assumed I had somehow received special dispensation. As an American, it’s news to me that there are bystanders staring at me eating a pastry in a coffee shop. This seems a bit paranoid. But, it was enough for Xander to not want to be seen in my company, so I felt extremely sheepish.

The offending pastry.

Funny Paper

2009-11-29T11:39:00.000-08:00

Randomly found on an Oxford street --

Ben and Xander’s Guide to English Dating (or lacktherof)

2009-11-28T00:08:00.000-08:00

My favorite part about bumming around Oxford for a week is being able to spend time with Xander, Miranda and their friends. The conversations they have over pints are the highlights of my trip. I consider myself to be very funny. It’s a skill I have carefully honed over years. But at my best, I am only just able to keep up with the witty conversation. I’ve been laughing so hard, so often in fact, that I’m beginning to see abdominal muscles appear under the layer of fat I’ve developed from eating meat pies and pasties every day.

For example: Ben and Xander’s thoughts on Dating.

Over a bottle of beer outside Kazbar on Cowley road, Xander and Ben explain the mating behaviors of the British male. Miranda provides eye-witness testimony to the accuracy of their account.

English men never ask women out on dates. To ask a woman out on a “date” would be far too direct and risky since the only outcome Englishmen can imagine is that they will be turned down flat, and laughed at publicly. Since the Number One priority for an English male is to save face, there is no “dating” in England at all.

At this point in the conversation, I point to a young woman pushing a pram with a pink pudgy baby blinking over its blankets and ask Xander and Ben, “So, how does that happen then?” Evidently, the English still manage to have sex.

Xander explains: “You go out to a pub with your friends, some of whom are girls, get too drunk one night (but not too drunk) and end up sleeping with one of them. Then, suddenly, you’re in a relationship. And since she’s already slept with you, you won’t be rejected - presumably. And it usually works out quite well since you were friends first.”

Breaking up is hard, since it is very English to avoid confrontation and disagreement. I got the impression that the breaking up ritual frequently involves the man’s shoes being chucked out the window or into the sea (whichever is closer at the time). But that could just be Xander’s bad luck.

I yell at both Ben and Xander with every ounce of American self-righteousness I possess that “The English Killed Romance! This is cowardice!” I harangue them, saying “I’d never date a man who didn’t have the nerve to ask me out on a proper date!” My boyfriend can attest to the brutal truth of this rule. Ben and Xander just shake their heads. That would never happen in England.

They tell me that in England, women have complete control. They choose who they will go out with and then somehow lead the men to think the relationships were the men’s idea. If a woman were to go up to a man and ask him out, the answer would almost certainly be yes. The men would be so relieved. I am sorely tempted to put this theory to the test with the Oxford Eye Candy… but, alas, I have a boyfriend. One who asked me out on a proper date too.

Ben tells a funny story of when he went to the Caribbean for a friend’s wedding. He was sitting in a restaurant with a group of English guys and one American man, and there was this beautiful girl sitting alone at a table across the room. All the guys were talking about her amongst themselves until the American gets up, walks over, and asks her what she’s doing the next night. He makes the date and gets her number. The English guys are floored. In shock. They spend the rest of the trip marveling at the American’s success and asking him how he did it.

With a history brimming with brave and chivalrous English Men, one would think the descendents of that noble past would be able to man up.

However, I can’t get too high and mighty – as much as I’d like to. The “hookup” is quickly taking the place of dating on college campuses, and for much the same reason as the British non-dating: Less pressure on the men, less risk of rejection, less commitment by avoiding the label of “date.” Men need to put forth less and less effort. They don’t need to be brave, they just need to be there for some girl to find.

Well, not on my watch. Sorry Charles, you gotta do everything the hard way. Because I have ideals. And I know you’re man enough to handle them.

The Creative Class

2009-11-26T00:00:00.000-08:00

Oxford, October 13th

As I’m writing this, I am sitting at The Crown pub, the oldest in Oxford. Shakespeare stayed here and shagged his friend’s wife according to the plaque at the entrance.

The lighting in pubs is of a warm, dim, golden quality, almost like candlelight although everything is electric. This makes taking photographs inside pubs impossible; they don’t turn out at all. Which is why you won’t see any here. I’ve tried to take pictures of the outsides of pubs. However, that leaves you – and me, when my fuzzy memories fade – on the outside looking in.

The last few days have been a blur. I feel like I should have been taking notes the whole time, but according to my SD card and run-down camera battery, all I’ve been taking is pictures. Much of my time has been spent in pubs with my hosts, Xander and Miranda. The pub culture here is unlike anything in America since the Founding Fathers drew up the Declaration of Independence on a bender.

Part of the reason for the culture of the pub is that drinks are large, cheap, and only moderately alcoholic: beer, cider, and perhaps watered down whiskey. Try to order a martini in a pub and you may end up with a gin and tonic if you’re lucky. Pub music is quiet enough to talk over. It is a place for conversation, the sharing of ideas, and the making of big plans. Xander and his friends hatch their most creative schemes at the pub. In fact, they are currently buying plane tickets to New York for a December Beatles Tribute concert that his musician friend, Ben, will play in – along with other musical and literary endeavors by all three of them along the way. They explain it better than I can – I wasn’t quite drunk enough to follow the conversation.

Xander and Miranda move in a world of creative people: writers, musicians, poets, novelists and comedians. East Oxford has quite an active music scene on Cowley Road. I haven’t spent much time with musicians to be honest, but they do come with a reputation, don’t they? The musicians I’ve met here (other than Ben, who is very nice and relatively normal) are very cool with their leather jackets, skinny jeans and combed-forward emo hair. They look sexy until they begin to speak—true of almost all men in my experience. But conversation among musicians is limited to the minutia of recording, recording technology, the music business in general, and the last time they came down the stairs wearing nothing but a tight thong that pushed their large, hairy balls out on either side of the G-string. True story. And I was not nearly drunk enough to appreciate it.

It is a glamorous lifestyle. Hanging out with musicians, traveling, being the struggling writer. Yep, I’m envious of Miranda. She is surrounded by creativity. She can talk shop about writing and getting published with her friends. No one looks at her like she’s crazy for not following a more conventional career path because none of them are following conventional career paths. There is camaraderie there and a sharing of joy in being artists. That’s Oxford in a nutshell: creative people constantly striving to do big things. I can relate.

The Lit Crowd

2009-11-25T02:17:00.000-08:00

October 9th, evening

Xander and Miranda are going to a housewarming party for one of Miranda’s friends from the Oxford Brooks writers program, and I get to come along. We walk a few blocks to Iffley Road past rows of stone houses that could be described with the same adjectives as supermodels: tall, skinny, and fashionable. Miranda’s friend has moved into one of these. Her parents own it and are renting it to her. Oh to be a poor writer who has parents with money. >> /end bitter rant<<

So there I am, talking with three other twenty-something female writers. Two of them, including Miranda, are writing novels, the other is working on a collection of poetry. I think Miranda’s friends have both been published in The Guardian. But, despite their literary achievements, their perfect, poreless matte skin, and their posh intellectual accents, I actually feel pretty cool in my own right. This is a first for me. I have really amazing and impressive friends – and, no fault of theirs - I usually feel like a hanger-on underachiever when I’m with them.
.
For the first time, I feel like I belong with such a stellar group. I quit my despised day job, which these ladies would all like to do; I am successfully supporting myself by writing (though most of the paid work is ghostwriting); and I’m traveling all the way around the world. There is no company in which that is not really cool. I am not embarrassed to say what I do or where I work anymore. I don’t feel like I have to make excuses for my life. I don’t feel like a wannabe, doomed to dream in a cubicle decorated with postcards of places I’d like to go someday.

I am so happy.

And that is worth giving up a thousand fat paychecks.

NASA bombed the moon and Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize

2009-11-25T00:00:00.000-08:00

October 9th 4pm

Jetlag doesn’t begin to cover it. I slept from 10pm to 12pm – 14 hours total – after not having slept for around 30 hours, thanks in large part to a Spanish woman on the plane yelling to her friends behind me every time I was about to fall asleep. Vaca Gorda.

I have every excuse to not want to move today. My throat is a little scratchy and my nose a little sniffly thanks to the sudden change in weather. I give in to sleep. I dream that I wake up at 5pm to hear Miranda coming in from work, but I wake at noon and force myself to deal with the plumbing. See, the most traumatic part of travel is figuring out the bathrooms of other countries. In England, older sinks have two faucets, one on either side. One faucet spews boiling hot water, the other pours ice cold water. Either causes instant injury. There are two solutions to this problem: 1) catch the cold water in your hands and carry it to the hot water, thereby only burning the tips of your fingers; or 2) wash your hands very quickly with the hot water spout before it has time to heat up all the way.

Oddly enough, the shower combines the hot and cold taps to make fairly hot water – and why this technology has not been applied to sinks, I’ll never know. The other thing that baffles me about the hot and cold taps is that the spigots are very close to the edge of the sink so only part of one hand can fit under the water flow at a time. Just – why?

I come back downstairs after my shower feeling so much better about the state of the world. It’s only when I’m in the middle of dealing with foreign bathrooms that I start thinking travel is stupid and England (or wherever I happen to be) is a deeply flawed country.

Then Xander comes up to me and says “NASA bombed the moon and Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize.”

“What?” I say, thinking that this is a bizarre manifestation of British humor. Surely he’s being funny. Sometimes it’s hard to tell when the British are joking since they do it with straight faces.

“No – it’s real.” He says. “Go to the New York Times.”

So I go to the New York Times website and there it is. Front and center. Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize.

I’m sputtering things like “FOR WHAT?!” “You do realize that he hasn’t actually DONE anything. All he has done is talk to a lot of people in a lot of places – which is what Democrats DO – and the only action he has taken is to ban clove cigarettes.” I think I’m shouting at this point.

Usually, I don’t get political. It’s too risky with my friends. They’re almost all liberal, and loudly so. As a conservative in California, I half live in fear of being found out. I maintain a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy for political affiliation. But at this news, Ugh. I lost it.

Even PrObamas are shocked by his getting the Peace Prize. Xander wonders how the President’s PR people are going to handle this. Is he going to say “thanks” and run with it? Is he going to give it back, acknowledging that he hasn’t done anything to deserve it? Or is he going to say something like “thank you, I hope I can live up to this”? That last one is my bet. I mean, he has to own that he hasn’t done anything but talk when it comes to promoting peace (yes, my liberal friends, I know you think talking is doing something – but it really isn’t). He has gone to summits, traveled, and flown on the wings of his own charisma and the fact that he is the successor of a vehemently disliked President.

I leave America for one day, and all Hell breaks loose.

Oh, and we bombed the moon apparently. Looking for traces of water. As they say here: Brilliant.

Oxford Eye Candy

2009-11-24T00:00:00.000-08:00

October 8th

It’s 11:43am England time. I put on makeup while waiting for my suitcase to materialize at the baggage claim, exchange money, and pay £26 for a return bus ticket to Oxford – the best deal around. It takes me a while to find the bus and figure out the system. I love traveling, but I’m not a very good traveler. I ask for directions and look lost a lot (though only in safe places like airports – I fake confidence on the street since looking lost in a city is begging for trouble). But, here I am, on the bus, and it is a crisp, crystal clear, bright October day. Not a rain cloud in sight. The bus driver is very funny, every word is sarcastic or understated. I’m enjoying myself immensely and trying very hard not to show it. I don’t want to spook the natives with too much open adoration.

The bus drops me off at the Gloucester Green station an hour earlier than expected. Xander and Miranda, my friends and gracious hosts here, can’t meet me for another hour and a half so I wander around the market square. On Wednesdays the square hosts an antiques market and there is plenty to see. I briefly consider taking pictures of the bizarre, inexplicable 1930s kitchen gadgets for my blog, but opt for a latte and people watching instead. A group of young middle-eastern men are giving me the once-over and seem to be debating whether or not I have been staring at them. I start walking before they can make up their minds.

I walk, hoping to find an internet café, until I discover that my feet know where they are going. I get this feeling a lot in England. Even if I’m in a town or city that I’ve never been in before, I can easily find my way around. This never happens to me in LA. I’ve been to Oxford a total of 3 daytrips over the past 6 years, which isn’t enough for me to have developed a map in my head. My feet, however, lead me straight down George Street and when I stop walking, I find myself staring up at the giant spire of the Martyr’s Memorial – the first structure I remember seeing in Oxford 6 years ago. I find the restaurant my Contiki tour ate in, the church I took pictures of, and I know exactly how to get back to the bus station – which is important because my cell phone doesn’t work here and pay phones baffle me.

I sit on the steps of the spire and fight the urge to take pictures of all the beautiful men here. There are equal numbers of beautiful women, but for obvious reasons, I pay them less attention. I’ve seen around five sexy grownup Harry Potter types, one Cedric type (aka Edward from Twilight), the rebellious intellectual, long-haired types, and my favorite: the tousled brown, curly hair that’s slightly too long type, wearing a long flappy coat. Rawr.

Unfortunately, the only males staring at me are the pigeons parked next to me on the steps. And maybe the guy who just walked by…maybe.

Not that I’m looking for romance. I have the best boyfriend in the world who would fit right in at Oxford. But I haven’t seen this much eye candy since I studied abroad in London 3 years ago, and I plan to enjoy it.

Oxford

2009-11-23T09:57:00.000-08:00

From LAX to Heathrow

2009-11-23T09:53:00.000-08:00

October 7th 2009

Air New Zealand to Heathrow is a throwback to how flying used to be. Oh – not in its heyday. I don’t mean to evoke images of coiffed stewardesses, and passengers dressed for a party. I’m talking about how flying was 5-10 years ago, when you had leg room and an empty seat next to you in coach class.

It’s great. Except that I can’t use my cell phone during the flight. It’s not just during takeoffs and landings anymore. Apparently my little cell could interrupt the navigation at any time and cause us all to come crashing down. The British man sitting in the window seat of my row (I have the isle) says that’s “a load of rubbish” and that the airlines have a deal with the phone companies to not let passengers use the phones…something about roaming charges. I don’t understand the reasoning, but I’m always up for a conspiracy theory when there are idiotic rules around.

The British man is in his 40’s has curly blonde hair and a classically ruddy complexion, like he just came off the rugby field for a pint. What I like about him – and this is a very English characteristic – is that we can pop into and out of conversation with no pressure or expectation to continue it. I can respond briefly and directly, end the chat there, and there’s no harm or cultural foul.

If you’ve ever sat on a bus or train in the U.S. and gotten into a conversation, you might have noticed that the conversation doesn’t end until one person gets off at his or her stop. It’s awkward. There is a pressure to be friendly once a conversation or any verbal acknowledgement has begun. Not so for the British, God bless’m.

I can’t take the credit for this observation. I’ve been reading “Watching the English” by Kate Fox, a cultural anthropologist. I’m going to try to be very observant while I’m in Oxford to see if I can spot the British behaviors she discusses in the book. Maybe I can keep a few of her rules of conduct in mind so I can more easily fit in.

But, no. I have already failed. The plane hasn’t even landed and I’ve made an inappropriate response to a remark about the weather.

The British man, sure enough, brings up the weather. Specifically, how miserably cold England is and how his wife, who lives in LA, can’t stand it. I, not recognizing the weather conversation pattern immediately, botch it by replying that I really like England even though it’s cold. My first mistake is in not agreeing with him that the weather is miserably cold – the codified response. My second mistake is stating that I like England. The man replies with a completely shocked “Oh? Why?!” Like, how could anyone actually like England?

According to Watching the English, the English habitually complain about England. You’ll never get an Englishman to say something positive about his homeland; it just isn’t done. And then there’s me staring wistfully at the airline stewardesses with their beautiful soft English accents, wondering if they have any idea how lucky they are to be English.

And that, right there, is proof that I am not English. I claim to be. I have the raw genetic material for it. But fundamentally I am not. I love England too openly and enthusiastically to be anything but American. I could never bring myself to complain about it.

-- 8 hours later - -

Pancakes at Midnight

Forget what I said about not complaining. Just as I am trying to get to sleep, take my contacts out, get comfortable and put on my little eye mask, the lights come on and they announce breakfast. Apple pancakes with apple crème fraiche. At bloody midnight. But, it’s 8am in England. Bloody England.

Oxford

2009-11-23T09:52:00.000-08:00

Tokyo 2009

2009-11-14T01:25:00.001-08:00

302 pictures of India

2009-11-12T09:33:00.001-08:00

Oxford 2009

2009-11-12T07:28:00.000-08:00

Coming Home

2009-11-05T23:39:00.000-08:00

It's November 6th, which means tomorrow I will be on a plane back to California. And I can't wait. It is very rare for me to want to stop traveling - once I get going I don't want to stop. But this time, I am very much looking forward to water that won't give me parasites or gastrointestinal problems, bland food (oatmeal is the stuff of my daydreams), and a comfy wonderful bed that is not on the floor (Tokyo - futons - 'nuff said).

This month has been amazing, shocking, surprising and sublime. And I've written it all down in my travel journal - this cool Italian leather, hand bound book I bought in Oxford (way better than Borders!). I've used up 4 pens and almost all the pages of this book, so there is a lot to tell. I will spend the next couple weeks transcribing what is in there to this blog, so we will be traveling back in time and go through my trip chronologically: From Oxford, to India, to Tokyo.

And maybe a few postcards from my Tummy, who has had a lot to say on this trip and needs a forum of its own to voice its opinions.

Edit: I know my blog says it's November 5th, but Japan lives in the future (true on so many levels, but also literally). So for me, right now, it's the 6th.

Travel Prep

2009-10-07T11:38:00.000-07:00

Behold the rejected travel journals:I went to Borders the other day to try to find a travel journal. But they were all wrong. The covers were pretty, but too flimsy and bendable. They'd never survive in my bag. Others were too small, some were too big. None were just right. So all I got from Borders was an inflatable travel pillow (which is terrible - hard to blow-up, uncomfortable when blown) and a pack of empty travel sized liquid bottles that are impossible to fill with liquid. Seriously, they each have a tiny pin-prick of a hole and nothing to unscrew to pour liquid in. I chucked those, but kept the cute plastic travel bag and used the empty bottles from last year's trip to England. Borders is totally on my Sh*tList.

Behold my month's worth of clothes. 10 pairs of underwear, 3 sweaters, five light shirts, 1 pair of long underwear, 2 pairs of capri pants, 1 pair of wool pants, 1 scarf, 1 bra, 1 pair of walking sandals, a lot of socks, and 1 pair of tights. Then there are bags of deet wipes, wet wipes, toilet wipes, toilet paper (travel size!), iodine tablets, medications of various kinds, my hairbrush and my passport. That's not including what I'll be wearing on the plane: 1 big blue coat, 1 scarf, 1 tank top, 1 sweater, 1 pair of blue jeans, 1 pair of socks and my Naot walking shoes (amazing, google them, they are so cool). See, Oxford's wettest month is October. It's around 50-60 degrees and raining all day. India is 80-90 degrees and sunny. Tokyo is 50-60 degrees.
And yes, it all fits. And YES, I will be washing these things during my trip. I'm not that gross!

My plane takes off at 4:30pm today, and I have to get ready to go. Next post will be from Oxford. First thing on my list is to get a pair of Wellies and a proper travel journal.

Instant Messages from the East: Advice for traveling Goris

2009-10-06T15:22:00.000-07:00

You know what girls do when they get together – they talk about boys and clothes. Instant Message conversations with my Indian friend are no different… well, maybe a little different. She has been giving me a lot of good advice for my trip to India, that is now only a week away. And here is her advice on Men:

Never go out alone with any male person.
I was telling my friend you were visiting, asking her if we knew ANYONE in Delhi, and we don’t. She was like “is she white?”, and I said Yep. She says “She should watch out. Men think white women are game for anything.”

My friend says, I’m glad you’ll have a brigade of women with you.

I’m glad too, and they’re mostly 50 and 60 year old women, so I should be well guarded. Even so, a 5’9” blonde is going to get attention. To this, my friend replies:

Well, it won’t be too bad because plenty of you [white chicks] have been there before....AND
Julia Roberts is filming Eat, Pray, Love there now in Delhi, I think.

I’ll spare you the amount of IM laughing I typed at this, since I am reading Eat,Pray,Love right now and have not been un-critical of it.

My friend continues: and to get back. Indian men are...different.
Some are very very well, respectful and nice. Overall they all are very shy and wont do anything.
But somehow they lose control when they see white people.
me: srsly?
My friend: It’s because of what I call the Baywatch syndrome. That show reached every village.
My cousins can’t talk English...but they all gathered around the tv to watch Baywatch.
My bro and I were young and got a kick out of that fact.

Things have changed now with the younger generation because a lot come to the U.S. to study and stuff.
And Delhi is a metro city so you have nothing to worry about. BUT you have a spectrum of people so, it’s always good to be alert and careful.

In talking about clothes, I learned a few good words to know:
LOTS of goris wear Indian clothes in India.. they have tailors too..who can stitch in hours.. but you can def purchase readymade.
GORIS = white women
GORAS= white men
PHIRANGI = foreigners

Prelude to India

2009-10-03T14:03:00.000-07:00

Why would anyone want to go to India?

This is the question people ask me, in various forms, when I tell them about all the preparations I have had to make to go to India—including bracing myself for inevitable stomach upsets. I been vaccinated for Hepatitis A, Tetanus and Diptheria. I have bottles of Cipro and Metronidazole for bacterial infections and the giardia parasite respectively. I have Deet to ward of mosquitos carrying malaria or the West Nile virus, and iodine tablets to purify the water – partially. Iodine doesn’t catch everything. So why, my friends ask, am I going to a place where I can’t brush my teeth with the tap water? Where beggar women with shriveled babies and empty milk bottles will tug at my clothes on the street? Why would anyone want to go to India?

I honestly can’t explain all my reasons, and I certainly can’t claim they make sense or are based on logic. I’m not going to India with any other purpose than just being there and seeing it for myself. I’m not going seeking enlightenment, or charitable works, or shopping, or even food (and food is my primary motivation for everything).

I think that maybe the appeal is in my blood, ingrained in my mostly British genetics. The British have always loved India, so much that they wanted it and took it for themselves. I can’t help but think of this act of imperialism as a dysfunctional love story. The allure of the orient was irresistible to the stodgy and overdressed Brits. Was it the tea that drew the English to the perilous shores of India? Was it the spicy food that made them brave dysentery and the hostile populous? What made them stay so long in a country where the mindset, culture, and hygiene of the natives were so different and contrary to their own? As in any relationship, the Brits wanted to change what they saw as the bad habits of their beloved, and as in any relationship, that backfired. But they still stayed and tried to make it work long after they knew it was over. Even though the breakup between the two nations was ugly and fraught with bad feelings, I think that infatuation is still there for the English. I know it is there for me.

But why?

When I think of India, never having been there, I see colors. Saffron, the burnt orange soil, lime green jungle growth, women in saris dyed like sherbet ice cream. I smell dust, nag champa incense, patchouli and body odor – hey, if the mind can have an eye, it can have a nose also. I hear the pitches of the women’s voices trickle up and down the vocal scale sounding so beautiful and appealing – I heard some Indian women on my old commuter train and they spoke like this; their speech was music and men were captivated. In India, there are monkeys, cows and elephants, even camels. Isn’t that amazing? Isn’t that exciting?

Really, if you think of India in those terms, who wouldn’t want to go?

Santa Ynez Coffee Co. aka. Attempt #2

2009-09-25T14:17:00.000-07:00

Don't ask me why this is center aligned. I don't know. My browser and blogger have been acting weird ever since I opened them in this coffee shop. I tried to change the alignment and it will not change. But, other than the peculiar effects on my computer, this is a better coffee shop than yesterday's for writing. Bright light comes in from two walls of windows, the AC is on, there is a plug in the wall for my computer, and they have really lovely unsweetened passion fruit iced tea (I overdosed on coffee yesterday). And -- they have the most amazing delicious juicy paninis on the planet. I took a picture of them, but I forgot to put my memory card back in my camera from uploading the last picture and can't figure out how to transfer the panini picture from the camera's internal memory to something I can use. This coffee shop seems to foster technical difficulties.

There are high school age kids here - nice, conservative, quiet and uniformely white. There are older men and women here too - nice, conservative, quiet and uniformely white. I'm going to take a wild guess and say they all go to the same church too. That's the thing that has always creeped me out about this place. As nice as this coffee shop is with its country music, western decor and big comfy couch, it is populated almost entirely with the Valley's Presbyterians. I've seen many Bible study groups meet here over the years. But, they make a damn good panini.

Back to work for me - and I'll see if I can re-align this post later.

Update: If you think I'm exagerating about the prevalence of Presbyterians, the three nice quiet highschoolers are currently discussing who is and who is not "Christian" (and who is pretending not to be Christian - whatever that means). Good God, I am so glad I'm out of high school.

The Hunt for the Perfect Coffee Shop - attempt #1

2009-09-24T12:40:00.000-07:00

I'm in the coffee shop that used to be Thanks A Latte in Buellton. That's how it is in small towns. Locals get accustomed to one name, and that name is forever attached to the establishment, no matter how many times it changes hands or changes names. So this is the place that used to be Thanks A Latte, and even though I'm sitting here now, I have no idea what the current name is.

I'm sitting in the back with a view of the front door and counter. Not only is this a power position in Feng Shui, but it's very handy for knowing who is coming and going. This is important in a small town; there's a good chance I'll know the people who come in. But around noon on a Thursday, I'm just hoping to find some peace. I don't know if this is THE coffee shop - you know the one. The one where I can go and focus gloriously on work in a hip environment that feeds me creative energy through coffee, music and overheard chatter. Right now the loudest sound is coming from the refrigeration unit in the Snapple machine. Damn Snapple. The hum is annoying, but the "world music" is just about right. Though there are some frenchish/tangoish songs that always make me feel like a comedic mime - and those play here sometimes too. Something about that kind of accordian music makes me spill things, break things, trip, and become a total destructive klutz. I almost smashed my paper coffee cup while trying to put the lid on, all because of the frenchish/tangoish accordian music.

But, overall, this isn't a bad spot to hole up and work in. Speaking of which, I am off to do just that. Work. I have quite a bit of work to do this week, which is utterly fantastic.

Spicemonkey is getting all the love these days

2009-09-23T14:25:00.000-07:00

If you want to know what I've been up to - look at SpiceMonkey. Seriously, cooking and cleaning up after I cook is all I've been doing, and it has been fabulous. I might have to slow down for the next week since I have some writing work to do (tough life, I know) and a horse to exercise, but a sourdough loaf is still on my to do list. Making bread is tricky, so if you don't see a beautiful picture of fresh baked bread on Spicemonkey within the next few days, that's because I will have failed in my mission. Will it be bread, or will it be a brick? Stay tuned to find out.

Hotel Del Coronado

2009-09-19T22:43:00.001-07:00

San Diego is such a beautiful city. When crossing the bridge to Coronado island, it looks a lot like Tokyo with the bays, bridges, boats and towering modern skyline. Coronado is more quaint than the fantasyland of Odaiba though. Every street has renovated Victorian, mock-Tudor, Greek revival and Spanish style houses - but the crowning glory is the Hotel Del.Charles and I came here last weekend during the 50th anniversary of the filming of "Some Like it Hot" with Tony Curtis and Marilyn Monroe. In fact, the day we were there, the hotel was hosting An Evening with Tony Curtis - but we didn't spot him. We did, however, spot these two in their very formal bathing attire.The beach at The Del glitters with gold dust. I've never seen anything like it. It's as if a kid dumped ten tons of craft sparkles over the sand.We walked around the expensive shops selling overpriced clothing and jewelry, but I stopped dead in my tracks when I smelled caramel and chocolate from the chocolate shop. If you're going to spend money at the Del, spend it here (and not at the crummy ice-cream place; it looks like good ice-cream, but isn't).

Yes, these were expensive too. And fattening. So I took a picture - it lasts longer and has no calories. Then we went to the aforementioned ice-cream shop, which was a mistake. No pictures of the ice-cream, we tasted, we said "Blech!" and threw it out (though not before Charles' ice-cream cone melted all over his hands). An imperfect ending to an otherwise glorious day.

Google Analytics

2009-09-15T15:30:00.000-07:00

After two years of blogging, I listed AnglophileinLA on Google Analytics to see if anyone besides my immediate family reads this thing. I know, I know, that's really un-tech savvy of me to have waited this long. But really, this blog has had two purposes for me - as a resume supplement for my writing, and for my own enjoyment. And my mom likes it.

I opened up Google Analytics today and found this: 126 visits from the United States (thanks mom); 14 visits from the United Kingdom; 14 visits from Brazil...; 5 visits from Germany; 4 from France; 4 from Poland; 3 from Argentina; 3 from Spain; 3 from Canada; and 2 from Lithuania.

A total of 204 visits. And I just started tracking last week.

So, to my mysterious visitors: Welcome! And I have some questions. Why did you click on this site? What were you hoping or expecting to find?

Google Analytics torments me. I want to know what people find interesting about my blog. Why, why do they come? And why aren't my friends in Japan reading my blog? Huh?

Falling off the food wagon for a pie plate

2009-09-14T13:55:00.000-07:00

I'm breaking down and going to the grocery store. I should explain - it's not like me to weaken my resolve like this, but I found the most beautiful apples from an apple stand in Santa Ynez. And I have pie crust dough in the freezer from...many moons ago. What I do not have is a pie plate. Which is why I need to go to the grocery store.

While I'm there, I'm going to get the cheap French Bread, salted and unsalted butter, tortillas, cheap cheddar (I have a coupon!), and green onions. The bare minimum for my dinner menu this week. If you're curious to know what a girl can do with what she's got, here is my menu:

Tonight: Boef Bourguignon
Ingredients: frozen Costco steak that has lived in the freezer for (I'll leave it to your imagination - if I put the actual date I suspect it was purchased, I'll catch Hell from my mother). Carrots, wine, Colman's mix and onions and bacon.

Tuesday: Parmesan Zuchini dippers with home-made marinara, and Bruschetta (I got a TERRIFIC deal on heirloom tomatoes from a vegetable stand in Santa Ynez yesterday)

Wednesday: Pulled pork enchiladas with Southwestern Rice Salad

Thursday: Caribbean Pigeon Pea Curry with Fry Bake bread

And Apple Pie.

All recipes will be posted with pictures on SpiceMonkey.

It's amazing how much food we have to work with since I've been freezing almost everything we don't eat. The leftovers from these dinners alone will provide my lunches for the next week and a half.

UPDATE: Forget the grocery store when it comes to pie plates - I got one at GoodWill for half the price of the ones at the grocery store.

Fun with Frugality and Foraging

2009-09-12T17:40:00.001-07:00

I can't forage for mussels because the water is polluted.
It's really difficult to make acorns into edible acorn-meal. I looked it up.
So many mushrooms are poisonous...better not to risk it. Charles doesn't like mushrooms anyways.
Escargot with the garden snails? Yuck.

This leaves visiting Dad and picking his leftover tomatoes as the only viable foraging available to me in Southern California. Not very satisfying. I will continue my search.

I'm really fascinated by hunting for free food now that I'm less-employed (not unemployed because I do work for money, but certainly less employed than I was). But first I need to exhaust the resources I have on hand. I've been stuffing food in the cupboards for years like a squirrel hoarding nuts for winter - don't we all? But now I look at the piles of pasta, rice and canned soup I have accumulated, and the italian-style bread crumbs, curries, instant potatoes and the bag of "pigeon pea", with renewed interest. Fervor even. Because I'm going to use it. We're going to eat it. And we're going to save a heap of money in the process.

For me, it's an adventure in Frugality. Frugalism? Frugalness? Either way, it's actually a lot of fun to be resourceful. (You can probably tell that I have not yet run out of coffee - I found half of a bag in the freezer last week from God-knows-when).

No such thing as a free coffee

2009-09-12T11:12:00.000-07:00

Since my boyfriend vetoed the Urban Foraging idea, I've devoted the day to getting free food online. Which isn't that easy, oddly enough. But, I have 2 sample boxes of cereal coming and one granola bar, which is a good start. Then I got greedy and sought free coffee, which is where I ran into trouble. See, they try to get you to bite on a million other offers before you can actually get to the free coffee form, and I accidentally said I was interested in furthering my education. Three minutes later - I'm not even to the free coffee form yet - I get a call from someone who says "I have here that you're interested in earning your two year degree, is that right?"

No.

"Oh, alright. Have a nice day."

And I hung up, feeling like an idiot. Do they offer degrees in How not to be a Dupe? In that case, I might be interested in enrolling. Oh well, no such thing as a free coffee.

SpiceMonkey Adventures in Little India

2009-09-08T14:28:00.000-07:00

I dragged Charles to Little India last year to explore these few mysterious blocks in Artesia, but it didn't take us long to figure out that we had Nooooo idea what we were looking at. I needed a guide. A couple weeks ago, I finally found my sherpa: my cooking cohort from SpiceMonkey (who prefers to remain anonymous). She is Indian and has lived in the Los Angeles area for years, but has never been to Little India. But, her family had a number of recommendations for us, the first being Woodlands Restaurant. This is one of the few Indian restaurants that serves South Indian food - most places serve North Indian recipes which is where you'll find Tikka Masala and naan. Each region of India has very different kinds of food and I'm just beginning to learn about them, but one of the things to look for in Southern Indian cuisine is the dosa.

I can't help but compare Indian food with Mexican food. It's beans and rice wrapped in an Indian-style tortilla to me. Ok, I'm half joking. Indian food is more complex than that. But I still think of dosas as Indian burritos.

Don't ask me what the curries are, but they were very good!

Again, I have no idea what this is. It's not fried eyeballs, that is all I know. [edit: they are called Gulab Jamuns]

Chapati, I think. But it looked really cool glowing in the light! [Not chapati after all: these are papads a.k.a appalams a.k.a. poppadoms]

After our South Indian lunch we walked around the four blocks that make up Little India between 183rd St. and 187th St. I love the store windows of the sari stores...

but the demon-children freaked me out a little. Yes, that little boy does have glowing red eyes.

Being girls, we couldn't resist looking at the saris. Whether cotton or silk,the fabrics are beautiful, bright, and elaborately embroidered. And my friend persuaded me to try one on, even though I was sure I'd look silly. Even in India, saris are not cheap. And if you're a white-girl like me standing in a shop in Little India, the price goes waaaay up. I'm saving my rupees for my trip, but this was a good test run. At least now I know I can wear bright colors and still look pretty good. Then we hit the Indian grocery stores - plural. There are a lot of them.

I love the "farm fresh" "Gripe Water".

Fairy soap! The perfect gift for the guys in our lives.

Real sugar jam in mango and passion fruit.

The bags of spices are huge. It takes me over a year to go through my small store of turmeric; this bag would last me at least 5 years.

Betel Nut: surprisingly decorative. I want to put it in a potpourri bowl with some dried coconuts - my friend thought this was a funny impulse.

I love how the "Special Masala" chick is pointing at me. Like, You are SO COOL - Check YOU out! You're buying the SPECIAL Masala! It's an ego boost in a bottle.

Indian sweets. Ok, now I've tried Japanese sweets, and some of them are a little weird. Like green tea flavored caramels (which are actually really good). But Indians, I don't think they get it. Their snacks taste a bit weird to my American taste-buds. However, I will return to this place for further exploration of Indian snack foods.

Does this look like fried chow mein noodles to anyone else?

Thus ends the first Spicemonkey foray into Little India. I'm sure my friend will have comments and reminders of what some of this stuff is, so this post may be edited substantially in the near future. Namaste!

wanderfoodwednesday.

Recovery and Reconstruction

2009-09-07T23:22:00.001-07:00

It has been a while since my last post. I’ve been a bit busy. I quit my job three weeks ago (about which I will NOT be writing), and then slept for three days solid. It was some sort of stress reaction to finally leaving a job I have long considered to be fodder for many years worth of nightmares. When I finally woke up, I had a few days of utterly manic energy, during which I decided to: work out until I have the body of a Victoria’s Secret model, finish the Hawaii blogposts, learn a smattering of Japanese, write a short fiction story, write a novel, and extend my trip to India to include a week in England and a week in Tokyo.

Now that I’m actually seeing all that in print, I wonder if that job really did drive me crazy.

So, for the past three weeks I’ve been writing for pay, getting back into shape (stress eating for almost 2 years does take its toll, even at the age of 25), and recovering in general. And slowly, I am making some progress on that colossal To Do list – though I think the whole VS model body is highly unlikely, especially since I’ve been cooking a lot.

I’ve been enjoying living on a smaller budget. I have given myself the “use what you’ve got” challenge for the next week, during which I will NOT go to the grocery store for anything. I’m running low on coffee though, which could be a problem. Hmmm, maybe I’ll blog about this project. I should extend it to two weeks to add some drama and maybe, towards the end, do some “urban foraging.” One of the little luxuries I'm missing is the super expensive basil-infused olive oil which would be Soooo Goood drizzled over homegrown tomatoes and mozerella. So I will be infusing my own olive oil sometime this week with results posted on SpiceMonkey.

Oh, and don’t ask me what the novel is about. I know that question is coming, so just please – don’t ask. If it actually gets written, then we’ll talk.

Hiking in Santa Barbara and Escondido

2009-08-08T20:58:00.000-07:00

My boyfriend and I have been doing quite a bit of hiking lately, and I always bring my camera. So here's a quick post on some of the startlingly beautiful places we've discovered.

When you drive from Santa Barbara to Buellton on Hwy 101, take a moment to marvel at the fact that you are driving through what used to be the solid rock of the Santa Ynez mountain range. Sometime near the turn of the century, people got tired of hauling their stagecoaches over the San Marcos pass and blasted through the mountain, creating a clear path. The picture below is from 1915.

On the right side of the road, heading North, is a trail head that leads to Gaviota Peak and a natural hot spring. I had been to the peak years ago on a school trip (my middle school is across the highway - nothing around it but mountains and oak trees), and always wanted to go back. Last weekend I got my chance, and Charles and I went on a short hike.

A few weeks ago we hiked a trail in San Pasqual Valley on Hwy 78. Pass the Wild Animal Park and the orange orchard until you reach the trailhead on the right to find it. We hiked this trail for the first time in early spring when the orchard was in full bloom. Even though we were walking up the mountain, and the orange blossoms were very far below, the scent was carried to us on the wind. That spoiled me for hiking this trail at any other time of year--though these pictures were taken in early summer.

The Interview that Almost-Was

2009-07-24T19:02:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I got my first call for an interview for a journalism job. She asked when I was available, and without hesitation I said “well, I’m free tomorrow.” I was so excited that I was light-headed and giddy for hours.

Today I ironed, manicured, showered, did hair, and borrowed my boyfriend’s car since my air conditioning doesn’t work. And off I went. An hour and ten minutes later I was in the parking lot of the newspaper building.

Ten minutes before the interview, I decided to turn down the volume on my phone, only to find a message (that did not exist earlier in the day) that the interview was off: rescheduled to Monday if that works for me. Taking Monday off would royally tee-off my boss, and my next furlough day isn’t for 2 weeks. I'm still trying to figure out a solution to this problem.

I decided to sniff out the newspaper building and introduce myself to whoever was there—since I was in the parking lot anyway. I nabbed the latest edition and spent the next few hours driving and walking around.

The town itself is as cute as a bug. I’ve been exploring the city webpage, Wikipedia and google.maps for the past week, and it has a fascinating history. The town boomed in 1900 and became the IT destination for Victorian families in the winter months. A community of immaculate streets, grand Victorian and craftsman homes, brick churches and a few actual mansions, all surrounded by acres of orange trees. The town hosted three Presidents. Then a drought and the Depression combined to halt expansion of the town. Industry never moved in, and urbanity never sprawled far enough to threaten the turn-of-the-century structures. The town is a time capsule.

I went into a coffee shop and the girls at the counter (1 working, 2 visiting with her) greeted almost everyone who came in the door by name. I asked them if they could fill me in on the town, and it turned out that the barista had lived there all her life and just finished taking 4th graders on a tour of the historic sites. She gave me a list of places to see with directions. I spent the rest of the day driving around, taking pictures of some of the gorgeous homes, and walking up and down State St. – the main drag.

When I got home, I found that my former Travel Writing teacher responded to my email asking for advice on the job search. He gave me some excellent tips on improving my resume and cover letter, and also gave me some frightening news:

The Grunion Gazette job - a weekly newspaper in Long Beach - received 163 applicants in the first three days after posting an ad for an entry level reporting job.

So – even though I drove for over an hour in 101 degree heat only to get postponed, I still consider myself to be one lucky duck.

Maybe I can take a couple hours off without ticking off my boss too much.

[Yes, I am still going to post the rest of the Kauai trip. I’ve just been spending all my time on cover letters for the past three weeks.]

Just for fun

2009-07-09T17:36:00.000-07:00

Kayak Kauai

2009-07-09T16:39:00.000-07:00

We pulled into the short gravel driveway and parked between a 1960s VW bus and a rack of kayaks. After tugging on my reef shoes I approached the woman sweeping the front steps of the hunter green bungalow and asked if we had in fact found Kayak Kauai. We were in luck. We filled out the usual forms that say we can die in any number of ways and the company isn’t responsible for any of them, and met Micco, our teacher for the next hour. Micco is a man in his mid-fifties, small, wiry, tan, with a grip that could mold cold metal. A simple handshake made me feel a world of respect for him, even if he was wearing a Speedo.

We practiced holding our paddles correctly in the yard and learned that paddling is more of a pushing than pulling motion. After that, Micco put us in a two person open kayak and we launched into the river, only about 30ft from the house. Another couple was just returning, so without time for any instruction, Charles and I had to maneuver the boat so we wouldn’t hit them. I think I have a gift for moving in water, even if it’s on a boat, because the logic of the paddle just came to me. If I held it firm in the water while Charles paddled from the front, the boat would turn quickly. Micco said I must have some kayaking experience, but the last time I was in one was over ten years ago with my dad-I didn’t think I had retained much.

We paddled out following Micco, concentrating on our technique so we wouldn’t get blisters or tire too early. Very simple lessons, but knowing a few tricks helps a lot. Keep your palm open when your hand is pushing and make sure your paddle is turned the right way (though Micco said we’d move in the water no matter which way our paddle was facing). There are different strokes, one where you wiggle your paddle in the water quickly back and forth which somehow acts to move the kayak sideways. Handy, if you have pull up alongside another kayak.

We glided to the mouth of the river and were greeted with the view of Hanalei Bay and “Bali Hai” in the vivid late afternoon light. Micco advised us not to call it “Bali Hai” – since that’s the made-up Hollywood name not much appreciated by locals. The Hawaiian name for the two famous peaks is Makana (gift). Our kayaks were inches above the reefs but Micco guided us out into deeper water. Then he said we were going to learn how to re-enter the kayak from the water, which required us to capsize first.

Charles isn’t the most secure person in the water – he had only just gone snorkeling for the first time two days before – so I was a little concerned about how he’d take this. One thing about Charles though, he doesn’t panic if he would embarrass himself in front of strangers by doing so. Don’t ask me about the logic of this, I’m just glad it works. So we bent to our right and tipped over, bobbing up on the current side of the boat so swells wouldn’t shove the boat into us. Well shoot, now what do we do? We learned fast that kayaks are deceptively heavy for hollow plastic, and Charles and I couldn’t tip the thing upright since our feet didn’t touch the bottom giving us no leverage. At Micco’s instruction, I swam to one side and hurled my upper body across the upturned bottom of the boat, clinging to the far edge with my hands. A lot like getting up on a horse without a saddle, which I have never been good at. With me pulling and Charles pushing up from the other side, we righted the boat and heaved ourselves, stomachs first, into the seats. My sunglasses and Charles’ glasses had survived by luck alone. Charles was drenched. I was in very chipper spirits, feeling alert and bright after the dip. Next lesson was how to handle waves: head straight into them because if they catch the side, you’ll tip over. We paddled into the first wave feeling the swell lift and drop us with a slapping sound. Then Micco said we could try surfing on the next one – turn around and paddle fast to catch the wave, and try not to get turned around or…
Whoosh.

There we were again. Bobbing in the water next to our kayak. After we hauled ourselves back, Charles vetoed my desire to give kayak surfing another shot. He had had enough seawater for one day. After a few words of wisdom about going against the current going out, and with the current coming back, Micco announced that he needed to leave, but we were welcome to paddle around for as long as we wanted and return the boat later. Charles and I were tired. We headed back pretty quickly, noticing blisters forming despite paddling techniques.

Paddling along the river was bliss. It was quiet, warm, and smelled green; I could have laid back and let the boat rock me to sleep. I navigated us to our dock, somehow remembering the correct fork in the river, and we said our goodbyes to Micco. In the car, Charles had this to say: “of all the things we’re doing on this trip—snorkeling, kayaking and ziplining—Kayaking is the only one I didn’t think would kill me. And it did. Three days into the trip and you broke me.”

I just smiled. It had been a lovely afternoon, and Charles would probably come to agree with that after his muscles and blisters healed.

Anglophile in India? Maybe!

2009-07-08T13:27:00.000-07:00

I know, I know - I haven't even finished writing my Kauai blogposts and I'm already planning my next trip. I always did like jumping the gun.

But get this - I've been trying to work out a way to travel to India by myself for the past couple months and just wrote off the idea as impossible two days ago. I was looking at plan Bs (Bruges, Copenhagen, England?), but today I found this: an India Women's Tour. For $3500. With a travel writer as the guide. This October.

I'm 99% sure that I will be able to say "why yes, I have ridden a camel" before the year is out.

Kauai Day 3: Kalalau trail, Red Hot Mama's, Kayak Kauai

2009-07-03T22:50:00.000-07:00

Sunday

Each morning brings new breakfast companions. I was hoping our red-headed friend would return, but this time our only feathered breakfast mate was a chicken. But boy, did that red-headed bird miss out: Kona coffee, toasted Hawaiian sweet rolls with butter and honey, mango and apple bananas--the small extra sweet variety that is everywhere here, even sold fried out of trucks on the beach.

We drove to Ke'e beach where Hwy. 56 dead ends as the sand begins. The small parking lot was packed, and both shoulders of the road had cars parallel parked along them as densely as I’ve seen cars parked in downtown LA. We had to do some hiking just to get to the Kalalau trail head. The trail is 11 miles long and takes a full day for people who are in shape. My boyfriend and I…aren’t in shape. But, we are in our mid-twenties, and you’d be amazed at how much physical exertion we can get away with. We hiked maybe three miles. Maybe less. Maybe one mile. Hey, give me a break—that trail is practically a vertical climb over rocks, roots and streams, winding high over the Napali coast. It’s almost never level. But it does offer stunning views of the coast that are well worth the climb. With polarized sunglasses we could see the sprawling dark reefs beneath the water's surface.

I was ready to eat something big, meaty and filling by the time we trekked back to our car, so I whipped out my list of cheap eats and set the course for Red Hot Mama’s. Red Hot Mama’s is literally a hole in the wall. Specifically, it is a window in a door next to Wainiha General Store, the last chance for food and drinks on Hwy. 56. Red Hot Mama’s menu is small enough to fit on the chalk board attached to the shutter of the window- they do organic Mexican food, also known as big fat burritos that are heaven when you’ve just come from the beach. Nothing is better than biting into a hearty, rice, meat and veggie-filled burrito after burning all your calories in the water or on the trail. Red Hot Mama’s hits that spot perfectly. The name comes from their extremely spicy sauce, which I poured into my burrito before knowing quite how hot it was.

Before returning to our condo to collapse for a few hours, Charles and I stopped by the shopping center in Princeville for Lappert’s ice cream cones. I picked out a chocolate and macadamia concoction in a dark chocolate dipped waffle cone, and just about choked over the price. Five dollars per ice cream cone. But it was worth every cent. There are a few things well worth a splurge on Kauai, and Lappert’s ice cream is one of them.

At four in the afternoon we pulled into the gravel parking lot of Kayak Kauai in Hanalei for our kayaking lesson. I have a talent for dressing appropriately for every occasion, and this was no exception: board shorts, reef shoes, a “tank-ini,” and a ton of sunscreen. Charles was in a button down cotton shirt, shorts, sandals and eyeglasses even though I told him he’d be getting wet. But he stubbornly insisted that his clothes could take a few drops of seawater. I wasn’t sure what to expect in a kayaking lesson, and neither of us knew that learning to kayak entailed tipping over upside-down in the ocean. Oops.

To be continued.

Kauai is coming, I promise

2009-07-01T14:58:00.001-07:00

I've been applying to every journalism job in SoCal, figuring out furloughs, stressing over family illness and finances - so bear with me while I organize my notes on the rest of my time in Kauai. Thank goodness I made detailed notes while I was there. That my friends, is good journalistic training in practice!

Estimated time of next post is Friday, when I'll have the day off for the 4th of July. Provided that certain family members don't pick that exact day to keel over.

Confections and Conversations at the Downtown Market

2009-06-26T15:42:00.000-07:00

I dropped by the Farmers’ Market a couple weeks ago in the Bank of America Plaza to get my last fix of Ghalia Organic Desserts before they left the downtown market scene for greener pastures in Westwood. I can’t say I blame them for the move – I like Westwood better too. The last $20 in my wallet went to vegan brownies and my favorite sugarless cookies, with a blueberry-apricot coffee cake thrown in. Khatija, the owner – I’ve mentioned her here before – left her full-time job fairly recently to pursue her dessert business, and I told her truthfully that I am about ready to do the same. Not to pursue a dessert business of course; I’m a terrible baker. But to take that necessary leap to focus solely on what I want to do with my life, and eliminate the elements that keep me from getting there. I have a lot of respect for her, because that leap takes a lot of nerve.

I also dropped by Elizabeth Sayles’ antique jewelry table for a chat and to ogle all the pretty necklaces. Moon and star themed gold Edwardian lockets, hand painted pendants from India depicting a lucky Ganesha, and art-deco rhinestone pins hung on long elegant chains that encourage a girl to wear a cleavage-bearing dress just to show off her jewelry. A table full of temptation. But I was able to focus on conversation enough to learn some exciting news – Elizabeth got a call from an editor at Vanity Fair magazine who requested a box full of her religious icon jewelry because her pieces had been specifically requested by their model for a fashion photo-shoot: Penelope Cruz.

She also mentioned that her father complimented my writing while she was visiting her parents on a holiday to the East Coast. Which is small news in comparison, but just as nice to hear. Unfortunately she had bad news as well – two pieces had been stolen from her table the week before, and she now has a couple of copy-cat designers who are frequenting the same flea markets I had highlighted in an article I wrote about Elizabeth a few months ago. The flea markets are all fairly well known in antiquing circles, so hopefully they didn’t lift their tips from my article specifically.

The Border Grill Taco Truck

2009-06-26T08:56:00.000-07:00

Don’t ask me why I am fascinated by the upscale taco truck phenomenon.I’m not even brave enough to ask myself why, because I fear the answer must be completely stupid. Maybe it’s the incongruity of it. These trucks that have been the bane of respectable businesses everywhere are now hip and serving up gourmet food to yuppies like myself. Crazy.

One of the latest incarnations is the Border Grill truck which was started by the same people who created Ciudad in Downtown L.A., Chefs Mary SueMilliken and Susan Feniger. The Border Grill truck has been serving up pork tacos topped with orange-jicama slaw and mahi mahi ceviche (one ofmy favorites from Ciudad) among other swanky fare for the past two weeks. I just hope it rolls by me one of these days. As always, the taco truck’s progress can be followed in minute detail on Twitter: http://twitter.com/BorderGrill

In other Taco Truck news, I had my first Kogi Truck sighting a few weeks ago and took pictures (will post soon). I was so excited. It was like seeing a celebrity. But, I restrained myself from the temptation to buy one of its famed tacos, even though the line was very short. Apparently I was right, and the shiny-newness has indeed warn off the Kogi-mobile.

Kauai Day 2 – Saturday

2009-06-24T14:38:00.000-07:00

Farmers Markets

I came to Kauai with two goals in mind: to snorkel and eat a ton of fresh fruit. On Saturday I was able to put a check mark next to both. There is a farmers’ market nearly every day on Kauai, and on Saturday my research showed there were two close by on the North shore. However, ascertaining the exact times and locations of these farmers markets isn’t easy since there are only a few websites with that information, and half the time they contradict each other. So I made plans to visit both markets in one morning. My first destination was the Kilauea Quality Farmers Association market “in the field near the post office on Keneke Street,” according to the directions I found online, which was supposed to start at 9am. The other began at 10am at the Hanalei Community Center “just off the Kuhio Highway” (the main road that takes you all the way from the airport at Lihue to where the road ends at Ke’e Beach). If the directions sound vague, it’s because they are. No specific addresses are given to fields “across from the ____” – fill in the blank. Somehow, Charles managed to navigate us to “the field near the post office,” but there was no sign of a farmers’ market there or anywhere nearby. We decided to show up early at the other market in Hanalei and arrived there around 9:20am. Which was fortunate, because the market did not start at 10am like the website said; it started at 9:30am sharp.

Why is it important to arrive to the farmers’ markets on time? Because in Kauai, the produce section of the market is only open for exactly one hour and all purchases must be made within that time. The markets start mid-morning or in the afternoon because the farmers usually pick the produce the morning of the market, and the limited amounts of perfectly ripened fruits and vegetables sell out fast. Charles and I stood in the midst of around fifty people waiting for the market to begin. When the shout went out that the market had started, those in front literally ran.

It helps to know what you’re looking for because while you’re asking the vendor what the funny looking spiny fruit is, someone will be grabbing it from under your pointing finger. Fortunately, I knew exactly what I was there for: papayas, mangoes and apple-bananas. But when I saw bags of lychees and plastic sacks loosely filled with salad greens and nasturtiums, I leapt for them. I was also pleasantly surprised to find passion fruit goat cheese and home-made chocolate chip macadamia cookies from the Kauai Kunana Dairy. The rush and energy of the market, partly due to the speed at which purchases had to be made, was the first difference that struck me compared to the markets in California. Rather than being stressful, the frenzy was invigorating – but that could just be my feminine reaction to something that looks and acts like a store-closing sale. The other difference I noticed was the baskets. Many women and a few men held beautiful big baskets to carry their produce. The sight of long carrot fronds, lemongrass, green onions, and pointy-headed pineapples trailing over the sides of the hand-woven baskets was lovely. I could tell that the basket carriers were locals.

After buying what I thought would provide breakfast for the week (I underestimated), Charles and I returned to our room for a photo-shoot of the produce and breakfast. We laid out lychees, papaya and my passion-fruit goat cheese on the table outside to enjoy the view of Hanalei Bay while we ate. A few minutes later we were joined by a red-headed bird who, with great cheek, made himself at home on my plate. Too charmed to defend my papaya leftovers, I gave him full rights to the table. As long as he didn’t go near the goat cheese. That, I would have fought for. Two of our chicken neighbors looked like they might follow the little bird’s example, but having a hen land on the table would have ended badly, so I tore up papaya skins and tossed them out on the grass.

Introduction to Snorkeling

We walked to the little beach down the hill from Hanalei Bay Resort to try out our new snorkel gear. In an attempt to get away from the three other people on the beach, we wandered towards Hanalei Bay, having to stoop to avoid overhanging branches that drooped over the water's edge. This turned out to be a mistake since the reefs around us were so shallow and went so far out that there wasn't enough room in the water to bathe, much less swim. So we trekked back to where the sand went further and the water was deeper. There were so few fish that Charles’ underwater camera had to be broken in with pictures of sand and murky water. But, the water was calm enough to make a perfect training ground since this was Charles’ first time snorkeling ever.

I taught him how to swim two summers ago in a pool, and that was tough. Not because he’s a slow pupil—he caught on very quickly once he figured out that dying was unlikely. But because teaching someone how to swim, for me, is like being a native speaker trying to teach my own language. Why does this work that way? Well…because it does and always has. How can you explain something you were born able to do? How can I understand what it is to sink having never ever sunk? I know some people naturally sink in the water, and other people naturally bob to the surface, but that’s all theory. In practice, floating has always seemed to be the only option. At least the salt water helped with floatation. Charles said he finally understood what it was like to be me in the water. I tried my best to give him the basics of how to put fins on (neither one of us is too graceful on that count) and to spit in the facemask so it doesn’t fog up. This first trip out was a bigger success than I thought – Charles loved it.

We decided to scope out Ke’e beach at the very end of Hwy. 56. The North Shore has a bad reputation for rough conditions in the winter months, but during the summer the northern waters are calm and the southern beaches get the brunt of the surf. The beach was so crowded by late afternoon that we didn’t feel like snorkeling, but we did get to see a scrappy terrier chase a startled rooster up a tree.

Hanalei Bay and Postcards Cafe

We planned on going to Postcards Café for dinner, but since we had some time before it opened, we walked around downtown Hanalei. We bought some sweet roasted nuts at Kauai Nut Roasters (the man working the counter is very free with his local knowledge, so if you’re wondering where the fish markets are or where to find the best Mai Tai, stop here first!). And we walked through jewelry stores selling pearls and leis made up of hundreds of tiny shells that sold for $500 dollars and up. I had read about these shell leis—Certified Niihau leis are made by the 200 native Hawaiian residents of Niihau island. Tiny Kahelelani shells, or Niihau shells, are sorted for size and color and sewn together by hand, and harvesting just a cup-full can take four hours. Some leis can reach $30,000. I didn’t get one.

I treated Charles to dinner at Postcards Café. It’s not a cheap restaurant--I think our total came to around $120 for two glasses of wine, pupu platter, two entrees and a shared dessert—but since I had a long list of “cheap eats” to try during the rest of our trip, I figured we could afford a nice evening out. I had read that Postcards Café specialized in healthy seafood and vegetarian dishes using local organic produce, which is enough to win me over from the start, but the aesthetics appealed to me as much as the food. The restaurant is in an old plantation-style cottage with hardwood floors, large white shutters, and bright white walls decorated with vintage Hawaiian post cards. And the food tasted just as fresh as advertised.

The Ghost

In the middle of the night I woke myself up from a nightmare, just as the evil witches were about to catch me—hey, I’ll be the first to tell you that I have a very active imagination. During my year of unsteady employment following college I had horribly violent nightmares every night and became adept at wrenching myself out of them. Now when I have them, they don’t bother me very much at all. But as I forced my eyes to remain open long enough to clear the dream from my mind, I saw the hazy white shape of a man standing in front of the curtains of the sliding glass doors. I stared harder, becoming very alert very quickly, and saw a pattern of green palm leaves come into focus below the head. A Hawaiian shirt? I checked to see if it was a trick of the light, perhaps the way the blinking light of the air conditioner was reflecting on the curtains. Did the curtains have a pattern in them that I hadn’t noticed before? No, no, they were plain off-white. The shape I was seeing was around six feet tall, and shaped like a…a fat, old white guy tourist. The curtains definitely didn’t have that shape printed on them. He was in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts. Frankly, he looked like any number of old, slightly rotund, retired men on the island. Maybe sixty-five to seventy-five years old with white hair, though the entire shape was in iridescent shades of white and gray. I couldn’t make out the facial features distinctly, but the impression left couldn’t have been clearer. I saw the ghost of a tourist. And it had been staring down at me.

I had a lot of trouble getting to sleep for the rest of our time there and kept checking to see whether the lights from the modem, the TV or the air conditioner could possibly explain the shape of a tourist in the dark. They couldn’t. But I kept reminding myself that of all the ghosts a girl could see, the specter of a fat old white guy sporting a Hawaiian shirt was not the most frightening. Kind of fitting actually. I mean, that’s exactly the kind of ghost one would expect to see at a hotel in Hawaii--if one ever expects to see a ghost.

Blog posts delayed for a while

2009-06-19T01:05:00.000-07:00

Hello All - I haven't quite dropped the ball on the blogposts. They're half written and messily annotated in a word document on my laptop, waiting for me to revise and pair them with pictures for publishing. But for a teaser, you can look forward to tales of attacking turtles, ziplining, and ...

a ghost.

Yes, a ghost. Seen by yours truly. I am so not kidding.

Kauai

2009-06-16T12:29:00.000-07:00

Kauai Day 1: Burgers and Onion Rings with a side of Beach

2009-06-13T13:55:00.000-07:00

Getting on the plane was mercifully uneventful. I forgot to take my laptop out of its case for security, but instead of strip-searching me in the back room in retaliation for my thoughtlessness (as I always fear they might), they just passed the laptop through the x-ray machine a second time. No problem. The only worrisome part of the journey came when we learned that seats on the plane were assigned only a little before boarding time and that the plane had been over-sold. Usually you can check-in online and choose your seats, and if you check-in early enough you can get your pick and find the ones with leg room. But mass confusion occurs when seats are assigned to some via an overhead t.v. screen scroll and not to others, and when boarding groups (1, 2, 3, 4) differ between couples traveling together. Charles was in the boarding group following mine, but the United worker let us both on at the same time with a shrug and bewildered smile.

United airlines has something called “Economy Plus” that we were unexpectedly upgraded to that actually has seats spaced so your knees aren’t providing lumbar support for the passenger seated in front of you. However, that was the only frill of the flight, other than a couple of non-alcoholic drinks. No peanuts, no pretzels, no meals unless you wanted to pay $9, and no individual television screens in the back of the seats. I tried to sleep, but having a middle seat and no pillow made anything but semi-consciousness impossible.

Six hours later we landed, and the sky was cloudy, the water choppy, and it was windy. Aloha us. Fortunately, as in Scotland, if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes and it will change. The difference between Scotland and Hawaii in this respect is that Scottish weather changes from bad to worse, whereas Hawaii weather can alter in either direction. Charles passed up the $15/day convertible and the “loss of use” insurance the Alamo Car Rental lady was pushing and we left Lihue in a sensible Ford Focus. Then it was off on Hwy. 56 to the North Shore.

I had our lunch place picked out: Duane’s Ono Char-Burger. Described as a “Kauai institution” that has the “best burgers on the island” according to an LA Times Travel article I read. The LA Times writer didn’t appreciate eating with the Chickens at the “unwashed” cement tables in the back, but I find the mild smell of chickens homey, and watching their antics while waiting for our BBQ burgers and onion rings was excellent entertainment. Yes – if you know Charles you may have paused during that last sentence. I ordered onion rings, and he ate more than one. I have proof!

3105 Hanalei Bay Resort is the specific name of our “condo” rental. It’s a studio with a lovely little kitchenette, surprisingly spacious bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub and a fold down Murphy bed. There’s also a guest book dating back from 2005 in which former honeymooners, anniversariers and vacationers have written their “thanks for the great room”s, travel tips like where they had the best time snorkeling (Tunnels beach ranks highly with our predecessors), and complaints. More complaints than you’d think, and many about the Murphy Bed. I guess they didn’t know what a Murphy bed was when they booked the place. My only complaint is that there’s a surprise $40 fee to use the internet for seven days, which was not advertised. But considering I got a fantastic discount on the place, I will not be adding that complaint to the guestbook when I leave. This place far surpasses my humble expectations.

In the afternoon we bought groceries at Foodland down the road. Nothing much, some wine, cheese, coffee and milk. The grocery store has a mouthwatering variety of seafood, so I am planning a return trip since our kitchenette comes fully stocked with pots, pans and olive oil.

In the evening we walked down to the little beach at the base of the hill. I haven’t been to the beach in a decade. I felt like I was meeting an old friend that I hadn’t seen in years, feeling guilty that I hadn’t bothered to call or write, and a little shy. But as soon as I walked into the surf, it felt as though no time had passed. That’s how these kinds of relationships go.
The evening ended on a high note for me. I did not exactly beat Charles at Scrabble, but I didn't lose either. We tied. Which is the first time that has ever happened since he is a brutal Scrabble player.

Kauai!

2009-06-11T16:18:00.000-07:00

Aloha friends!

I am taking off to Kauai tomorrow and should land in Lihue around noon their time. Charles and I have our itinerary all planned out and it is ACTION PACKED.

So, stay tuned for:

Kauai Farmers Markets

Adventures in Snorkeling

Kayak School

Hiking the North Shore

And...

ZIPLINING.

With some relaxation thrown in and stuffed around the edges, like last-minute socks in a suitcase.

I Call Shotgun! Part 6: Pit Stop in Paso Robles Paradise

2009-06-09T10:19:00.001-07:00

Shaded by a canopy of twisted oak branches, Adelaida road winds high in the hills overlooking grassy valleys and vineyards, that seen beyond the trees, seem to generate their own light. I remember a cartoon of Jack and the Beanstalk, and the opening scene was of a fairytale valley, a patchwork of prosperous fields spread across rolling hills. The Santa Ynez Valley has always reminded me of that. But this one road in Paso Robles combines all of my most beloved aesthetic elements to create a truly magical land where one might just be able to spin straw into gold or meet gnomes in the walnut orchards.

As if the view weren’t reason enough to plan a return trip, the wineries along this stretch of enchanted pavement are outstanding. This time, I stuck with George’s list, not eager to reconnect with the drunken revelers we met on our way North. We were so taken by the scenery, that we accidentally drove past Halter Ranch and ended up at Tablas Creek first, although I had it listed as stop #2. Yes, I do overplan.

Even during busy times, the tasting room at Tablas Creek has enough staff and space to give customers individual attention. Which is great since the tasting pourer was extremely knowledgeable. He knew the Tablas Wines and the history of the winery backwards and forwards. The vines were cloned and shipped directly from the Chateau de Beaucastel winery in France, a process that took three years just to set the roots in California soil. But the owners deemed it worth the effort to get the exact Rhone varietals for the wines they wanted to make: Mourvédre, Grenache Noir, Syrah, Counoise, Roussanne, Viognier, Marsanne, Grenache Blanc and Picpoul Blanc. They scoured the California coast for just the right microclimate and pH level to replicate the Rhone region, determined to bring the Rhone grapes and the Rhone weather together and settled on Paso Robles. The new Tablas Creek Vineyard also continues the Rhone tradition of blending wines, in fact 80% of what they make are blends. Delicious blends.

In addition to Tablas trivia, I also got a good whiff of the definition of “Barnyard,” which is a term I hadn’t heard before, but could have used many times. “Barnyard” is a descriptor of the nose, specifically a nose that smells like manure. Or, as they put it “a gamy nose but with lots of fruit behind it.” Their writeup is more accurate, because I do not mean to imply that Tablas wines smell like crap.

One of their wines, the Esprit de Beaucastel 2005, knocked me for a loop because, while the nose was initially eau-du-dung, it morphed into heavy luscious jasmine. What I really liked about this wine is that neither the jasmine nose nor the strong fruity flavor lessens after a few sips, like so many strong wines do.

The 2008 Rose was very dry with a vivid nose of strawberry. A perfect wine for a warm night in Hawaii – yes, I’m bringing it, and we’ll just see whether that “bottle shock” thing is true.

The 2005 Syrah had a strong “barnyard” nose, but in a pleasant, earthy sense. Growing up around horses, I actually find the scent of good old dirt comforting.

Tablas Creek, $10 tasting fee
9339 Adelaida Rd. Paso Robles

When we drove past Halter Ranch the first time, my head swiveled around to see the classic 1885 Victorian Farmhouse shrink in the distance. Such a gracious home in the midst of this overabundance of natural beauty so captured my imagination that I would have demanded we double back even if Halter Ranch hadn’t been on George’s list.

The Halter Ranch tasting room is in a pretty little wood structure to the right of the farmhouse with a deck built out over a small hill that dips down into a dry creek below. A gravel path meanders down from the deck to an area with picnic tables set around a large outdoor stone fireplace—a perfect setting for a wedding, though unfortunately the owners don’t rent it out to people they don’t know. They do host a number of wine and food events though.

Our pourer was a genuine French woman who said she liked Californian wines and America in general, California weather in particular. The wines at Halter Ranch were very different from Tablas, and overall I found them to either be too sweet or too acidic. Cat tongue. Taking a whiff of the 2004 Ancestor Estate Reserve was like sticking my face in a pile of slightly overripe sun-warmed plums. With a dash of vanilla. The definition of “fruit forward.” I’m picking up my wine terminology quickly these days.

I was somewhat tempted to get the 2008 Rose, since I thought it would be the perfect wine to drink with family. It has a very high alcohol content (a plus for family get-togethers), a super sweet nose, and is also very fruit forward. It’s a wine that my mother would like—considering that her favorite wine is Beringers White Zinfandel—and that I wouldn’t choke on (I hate White Zinfandel). But I’m not so rich as to bust money on a bottle that I don’t love, especially since most of my family really is quite happy with the Costco 6 pack of Beringers. Sometimes I think I am adopted.

My favorite part of Halter Ranch, besides the old covered bridge and the charming Victorian house, was the resident kitty. He looked like an Ossicat, with feral leopard-like spots, and apparently he appeared one day and decided to make Halter Ranch his home. Even Charles liked him, and he is decidedly a dog person.

Halter Ranch, $5 tasting fee
8910 Adelaida Road, Paso Robles.

Finding the mysterious Linne Calodo winery was tricky. We kept winding up a narrow road, checking addresses at every turn, doubling back once, until we finally found the almost unmarked entrance. Then we drove through the trees and saw a few large empty wood buildings. Thankfully there was a sign that said something like “Yes, our tasting room is open.” We wandered around to the back of one of the buildings, and sure enough, a door was open. Two people were inside: a young lady behind the counter, and a scruffy young man who struck me as a possible Santa Barbaran (they have a look – unwashed, moneyed, smart, and trying hard to assimilate with the plebeians). Charles thinks he might be a winemaker himself; the guy definitely knew his stuff and helped me find words to fit what I was tasting.

Of all the tasting rooms I’ve been to, I think I felt the most comfortable in this one. Which I really can’t explain. It’s not like the tasting room girl was exuberantly welcoming - but between her and the scruffy intellectual, I felt like I was hanging out with really wine-smart and fun friends. The conversation flowed freely, we got each other’s jokes, the chemistry was as good as the wine. And the wine was good. And expensive.

All the wines are reds, Rhone and Zinfandel varietals. We started with the round and rich 2006 Outsider. The 2006 Cherry Red however, blew me away. Blueberry and lavender nose, red with blue undertones for color, very fruit forward but with some toast on the end. I couldn’t even figure out how to describe the 2007 Problem Child, which is really embarrassing as a writer. I was also having trouble figuring out the 2007 Sticks & Stones until the scruffy gentleman suggested “cream soda” which suited it perfectly. The 2006 Nemesis had a big, powerful nose, a smooth mouth feel, and tasted like toast, burnt caramel and crème brulee with a smoky finish. I want to move in – just leave me at Linne Calodo. Will work for wine.

Linne Calodo, $10 tasting fee
3030 Vineyard Dr. Paso Robles.

If you can't take the heat, stay out of the kitchen and other sensible aphorisms

2009-06-08T20:58:00.000-07:00

If you don't like water, don't go swimming.

If you don't like dancing, don't go out dancing.

If you don't like meat, don't eat meat. You see where I'm going with this...

Makes sense, right?

So why do some people read the travel section of a newspaper and complain that the TRAVEL WRITER isn't covering local places in his article?

Why do people click on the "Food Section," and then make the effort to click into the "Wine Section" and commence to complain about the wine industry and/or the evils of alcohol beneath a perfectly innocuous article?

I read a lot of newspapers and have been noticing this phenomenon more and more. If it doesn't happen to be my article that is the subject of complaint, then I gleefully - yes, gleefully - comment on the foolishness of these people just as bluntly as I've stated it here. But, alas, the people who like to complain have discovered my humble writings--and a writer just can't go around commenting on her own articles. Granted some of them are literally crazy-nuts, but some of them seem like fairly normal non-certifiably insane citizens. And yet...

Ok, I'm going to step back and get some perspective on this. ***Deep breath***
I am a writer, and my raison d'etre is to entertain. And these people are surely entertained by their own rantings. I understand better than most how fun it is to get riled up about something. So I suppose, in a way, I am increasing the nutzoid joy in the world. And far be it me to criticize anyone who takes the time to read something I've written, for whatever reason they're reading it. And who am I kidding? I'd rather get negative attention than no attention at all - at least I know that I am striking a chord.

Alright, I am back to my normally zen state. Mostly.

I Call Shotgun Part 5: Carmel and Monterey on foot, if not on toe

2009-06-05T15:03:00.000-07:00

On Monday, the last day of our trip, we hobbled out of our hotel early to see the sites of Carmel. Fortunately, Carmel has a very small downtown lined with shops and secret courtyards, perfect for a morning walk – even when one of us was limping due to the aforementioned toe injury. I needed my coffee, so our first stop was the Carmel Coffee Roasters on Ocean Avenue. Every few feet we passed a dog, or two or three dogs, and sometimes a dog brawl accompanied by the owners’ surprised exclamations of “Oh, he’s never done that before!” and “he’s usually so friendly!”. Sure, lady. Little dogs like to get into fights; it’s part of their charm, and it’s also pretty funny to watch. Carmel is a dog-friendly town, so owners tend to understand the occasional snarls emitting from scrappy terriers. We walked down to the dog beach at the end of Ocean Avenue and saw dozens of people with their furry friends braving the cold coastal fog.

I wandered into a posh looking shop, attracted by a colorful dress in the window (my weakness), and was promptly approached by a tense saleswoman who took the coffee out of my hand and set it on the counter. While making the politest of remarks, of course. I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t exactly worried that the remaining 1/8th cup of coffee would find its way onto her $300 dress or the mink and chinchilla coats displayed 4 feet above my head along the wall. But I didn’t. What I really would have liked to explain to this lady is that I am a Santa Barbara girl, no stranger to overpriced “boutiques” like hers, and that I am more intimately familiar with expensive chinchilla fur than she will ever be. Granted, that’s because my grandmother used to raise and kill the adorable little rodents for fur. I would have left that part out. Instead, I left seething over the sheer nerve of the pompous sales-lady. And then I saw a small bottle of “vintage coke” in the neighboring art store’s window with a “SOLD” sign proudly displayed, and just had to laugh at the whole thing. Wealthy communities can be pretty quirky.

Just as I was cultivating a rather negative opinion of the stores in Carmel, Charles and I entered a hat shop down a little corridor off of Ocean Ave. Now, hat shop salespeople are my acid test for whether I warm to a community or not. If they let you try on all the hats you want with nary a glare, then I say they are good people and there is hope for the posh community yet. Harrod’s hat department, incidentally, has remarkably patient and kindly salespeople – even when their exorbitantly expensive hats are being manhandled by brash Americans (not me!). The Carmel Hat Company was a pleasure. The saleswoman obviously loves hats, and encourages patrons to enjoy them also. I’m always on the lookout for the perfect Cloche—but even with stacks of lovely hats, it was not to be found.

On a tip from my friend, the one who got married, we went to the Old Fisherman’s Wharf on Monterey Harbor. I immediately started snapping pictures of a sea lion rolling around in the surf. We walked along the pier, creating a trail that looked like a connect-the-dots route between clam chowder sample tables. And there were a lot of samples, chowder handed out in front of almost every restaurant, each person claiming to have “the best.”

Some were rich, thick and creamy, others were lighter, some had big chunks, some were watery – but they were all hot, which on a cold day by the sea, was delightful. I decided on Domenico’s on the Wharf; their clam chowder was very good (on the heavy, chunky side) and they had a bathroom, which after the coffee and clam chowder, was my top priority.

The restaurant also had a stunning view of the harbor. Sea lions lounged in a pile like puppies just outside the wall of windows, and giant pelicans launched themselves from the roof overhead. My giant clam chowder bread bowl warmed me up and laid a foundation of carbohydrates in my stomach in preparation for a second afternoon of wine tasting in Paso Robles on our drive down South.

Nothing on the To Do List

2009-06-05T13:12:00.000-07:00

I just had a frightening moment. I looked at the dry-erase board where I write the list of articles I’m currently working on, and it was empty. I finished the last Brides blog post, I’m sending the Little Tokyo Fieldguide article to LA2Day tonight, my wine article was published yesterday, and earlier this week I sent a query to Westways to which I have not yet received a response (but they didn’t reject me outright which is a very good sign). For the first time in… a really long time, I have nothing I should be working on. With the exception of my blog, of course. But still, it’s a creepy feeling.

LA2Day has decided that paying writers costs too much money, as does keeping a staff. So they’ve cut funds for both, which means that I need to focus my energies elsewhere on paying gigs. I’m already compiling a list of ideas and places to pitch them, but I am forcing myself to hold off for 3 more weeks. Because it just wouldn’t do to be working my tail off in Kauai. And the fact that it’s tempting to do so may just be more frightening than my empty projects board.

Maybe I shouldn’t have had that second cup of coffee today…

Update: Since writing this post at 12:10, I have since dashed off another article, my second for StudentStuff.com (they haven’t put up the first piece yet, but they did pay me for it). After I check it over for typos and hunt down an appropriate picture, it will be ready to send. I really suck at taking breaks.

Gourmet on the Go - The Burger Bus in Santa Barbara

2009-06-04T15:03:00.000-07:00

The novelty of the Kogi Korean BBQ truck has worn off for Angelenos, due in part to a highly publicized PR faux pas. But while Kogi has exhausted its 15 minutes of fame, Twittering foodies might consider turning their tweets towards a Burger Bus.

We’re not talking McD’s, or even the beloved In-n-Out style burgers. We’re talking grass-fed, hormone free beef, on bread from a local bakery with cheese and produce from the local farmers market. They even have falafel for vegetarians and “yam chips” which hold an inexplicable fascination for me.

So, same premise – gourmet food on wheels – but done Santa Barbara style. Yes friends, LA isn’t quite cool enough to come up with a Burger Bus like this. So if you’re tweeting away in Santa Barbara, check this place out: The Burger Bus

Hopefully The Burger Bus people will learn a thing or two from Kogi’s mistakes, or at least take some very good advice from my mother, who always told me “Never say anything you don’t want on the front page of the New York Times.”

Usually I don’t talk about other articles on my blog, but I wouldn’t have known anything about this if it wasn’t for George’s article in the Santa Barbara Independent today – so check that out too.

Ok, now back to writing about Little Tokyo for reals this time.

Cheap Wine Tasting in Santa Ynez - new article up

2009-06-04T13:51:00.000-07:00

Stay tuned for my last installment of "I Call Shotgun" - I'll post it soon, I promise. Just have to dash off a Foodie Fieldguide to Little Tokyo by tomorrow.

In the meantime, check out my first foray into writing about wine-related subjects for pay, published today in the Santa Barbara Independent:

Five Tastings Under 10: Affordable Places to Taste Wine in the Santa Ynez Valley

Cheers!

I call Shotgun! Part 4: My High School Friend’s Wedding in Carmel

2009-05-30T10:35:00.000-07:00

The outdoor ceremony was mercifully brief, since the bride wore a short cotton spaghetti strap dress on a misty 60 degree afternoon and was shivering. At least she said she was shivering, and not shaking with nerves, but I suspect a bit of both. Even I was shaking with nerves for her, though I have no idea why. Perhaps it’s the shock of seeing the first wedding of one of my friends from highschool – it was surreal. I’ve known this girl since we were 14, and now, ten years later, I’m seeing her make vows to someone on a cliff overlooking the freezing, gray Pacific ocean. They rented a private home with an incredible view, and the house itself was large and cabin-like, with an outdoor fire pit around which we sat, joked and talked until night.

We toasted the couple over a delicious dinner her mother made –there were only fourteen of us total—and toasted marshmallows, between the men adding heaping towers of logs to the already blazing fire. Men really like fire pits, and burning the hair on their knuckles trying to add logs while making highly theatrical faces of pain became the macho sport of the evening. In times like this I am especially proud to be with my boyfriend, who succumbed to the temptation to thrust his hands into the inferno only once, and when he found that the fire was indeed hot, returned his attention to his beer. Yes, I have truly found a gem.
Around 9:30pm, we were exhausted from socializing, as much fun as it was to visit with my friend and her family. She led the way down the steep and very dark stone staircase to the parking lot, and I followed. But the stairs were uneven and I was in heels, which caused me to misstep and topple onto the bride.

Thank goodness I caught myself before landing my full weight on her or she would have been a pancake. My left shoe felt a bit slippery, but fortunately the darkness hid the extent of my wound. I brushed it off as a chipped toenail, said a quick goodbye, and got into the car to investigate the damage. One half of my big toenail still lies somewhere on that staircase. I’ll skip over the blood gushing parts and say that I held it together extremely well. Charles whipped out his first aid kit and found a band-aid that would work until we made it to the nearest drug store (thank goodness he brought his GPS), and then he bought enough bandages and Bactine to dress a severed leg. Thus ended Sunday.

I wrapped up my toe, went to bed, and woke up every time I wanted to roll over, afraid lest even a sheet brush against my injury. In the morning, I put off wearing shoes as long as possible. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that bad, and I managed to wear the heels of the night before (they were open toe, and tennis shoes were my only other option). I hobbled up and down Ocean Avenue, leaning on Charles’ arm, determined to see the town.

I call Shotgun! Part 3: Santa Cruz, In which LV smells pot and buys her weight in vinyl

2009-05-30T10:18:00.000-07:00

My friend’s wedding was Sunday afternoon, but with the morning free, my boyfriend and I decided to visit one of his old college haunts, Logos Bookstore in Santa Cruz.
Upon driving into the parking garage on Church St. and Commerce Ln., this was our conversation:

Charles: Ah the smell of pot. [to self] Welcome back Charles, welcome back.
Me: *sniff* Really?
Charles: [Definitively] Yeah.
Me: Really????????
Charles: Yeah.
Me: Wow, I suck.
Charles: Yeah, you do.

See, I cannot, to this day, remember what pot smells like enough to be able to identify it. I’ve had the smell pointed out to me many times, but for some reason my memory can’t quite latch onto it. But, within our first five minutes of entering Santa Cruz, pot smoke was decidedly wafting in the breeze.

While the pot-smoking habits of Santa Cruz residents have evidently not changed, the shops and political climate of Pacific Avenue have altered drastically. Several years ago, when my boyfriend attended the University of Santa Cruz, the extremely liberal hippy student population went ballistic over a Borders Bookstore trying to rent space in the shopping center. They petitioned the city to not allow Borders to rent, which the company circumvented by buying an entire building. I believe in supporting small businesses, but Borders wins points with me for standing up to the mad hippy mob. Now, six years later, the one-time battleground of Pacific Avenue is lined with corporate stores like Urban Outfitters and GAP. Small independent stores co-exist peaceably with their larger neighbors, and I enjoyed all the options. So many pretty dresses in the shop windows, but I restrained myself and only bought an Indian scarf for $10 at a place called Bunny’s Too. I would have liked to have spent more time running my hand over the soft cottons of the dresses…sigh…but with the wedding in a few hours, we had to go for what we came for.

He came for books.
I came for vinyl.

Records, that is. Real, round, grooved and groovy records. And Logos bookstore has two long aisles of them.

I don’t actually have a record player. Yet. But I have wanted one for years, since the new old-fashioned looking ones came out. I know that at some point I will buy one, and when I do, I will need records to play. And Logos has the biggest selection I have ever seen. Political speeches by Churchill and JFK; 1960s music from the Caribbean, Hawaii, and France; children’s audio stories and radio shows; and of course, the classics. Doris Day, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and bands like America. This is by no means the complete list of what I bought, and at around $3-$5 per record, they added up. I call it an investment – I’m seeing vintage themed parties in my near future, and puzzling over these relics with my children and their children in the far future, when even my “new” “old-fashioned” record player will be an antique.

Logos Bookstore
1117 Pacific Ave. Santa Cruz. http://www.logosbooksrecords.com/

I call Shotgun! Part 2: Carmel by the Sea and Passionfish

2009-05-30T10:05:00.000-07:00

We reached Carmel late on Saturday afternoon with plenty of time to check in at the Wayside Inn (on 7th and Mission St.) before dinner. Researching accommodations flusters me—there are too many options—so my boyfriend gallantly found this place for us. Only a few steps from the shops along Ocean Avenue, the Wayside Inn is a small French country style Bed & Breakfast, and our room was extra Frenchified with chicken toile wallpaper, a fireplace, and balcony. It was also relatively affordable, especially for Memorial Day weekend. Having a complimentary continental breakfast delivered to our door every morning cut down on meal costs, which was almost unfortunate since the breakfast places in Carmel looked really good.

I had dinner reservations at Passionfish in nearby Pacific Grove, which was not only recommended by George, but had Yelp and Chowhound reviews like “this was the best dining experience I’ve ever had in my life.” There were around 25 equally ecstatic reviews, all of which I had read, that sent my expectations sky high.

How to put this delicately…it was ok. I know I’m damning it with faint praise, but when I think of my top five* dining experiences, Passionfish-with all of its good, earth-friendly intentions-doesn’t come close to them. The wine list was extensive and fairly priced, but not cheap. The portions were small, which for me was great since I’m on a diet until Kauai, but one crabcake is a meager appetizer even under those circumstances. It was a very fat and crabby cake, full of seafood and nicely done. I ordered the Moroccan spiced chickpea soup to start, which was an interesting concept, but the flavor quickly became monotonous and the slim film of oil was unappetizing enough for me to put down my spoon halfway through. However, my scallop entrée did have four perfectly cooked melt-in-your-mouth scallops. Understand- nothing was bad. But after having read pages of rapturous reviews, I was expecting fishy Fireworks. I would still recommend it to anyone in the area- the ambience was lovely and the service was impeccable. Passionfish’s location is another undeniable draw: it is surrounded by a charming community of Victorian homes and shops, and the nearby side streets invite evening walks.

Passionfish
701 Lighthouse Avenue, Pacific Grove

*If you’re curious, my top five dining experiences are: Ballard Inn in Ballard, Flemings Steak House in El Segundo, Epiphany in Santa Barbara, and The Summit House in Fullerton. Other contenders are Kemosabe in San Diego, George’s at the Cove and the Marine Room in La Jolla, and Rules restaurant in London.

I call Shotgun! Memorial Day Road Trip Part 1: Paso Robles

2009-05-29T21:11:00.001-07:00

Last weekend my boyfriend Charles and I drove up the coast to attend the wedding of my high school friend in Carmel. We don’t get a chance to venture North of the “Hella Line” often, so we decided to investigate Paso Robles wines and explore the Monterey area also during the trip.

But, we didn’t just magically appear in NorCal – the trek began after work in Downtown L.A., continued with our road trip ritual of ordering two crispy steak tacos at Snapper Jack’s Taco Shack in Ventura, and ended for the night at my mom’s house North of Santa Barbara. On Saturday morning we took off early, around 11am (well, we were supposed to take off early anyways), so we could taste some Paso wine.

Saturday: The Wages of Zin

Having been raised in Santa Ynez, I have a heavy hometown bias when it comes to wine—could Paso Robles, a rocky little outpost subject to extreme temperatures and smelling of cows—produce wine as good as my lovely little valley? I had serious doubts. And I hadn’t heard much about Paso wines to make me doubt those doubts—in fact, all I had heard was that there were wines to be found there.

Before we hit the road, I asked my friends for any recommendations, and George – my editor at the Santa Barbara Independent – pointed us to his favorite Paso wineries. As a food editor, George is a very reliable source for foodie info--but then again, everyone has different tastes, especially when it comes to wine. So with few expectations, Charles and I went to our first stop: the George-approved Turley Wine Cellars.

We walked out with two bottles.

Turley’s small tasting room had knowledgeable people standing on both sides of the counter – these were not newbs. These were young couples and middle aged people bandying about wine lingo like “levels” and “chewiness” while deftly swirling their glasses. The very professional—yet friendly—pourers talked about the age of the vines that went into each bottle, a very popular theme in Paso it turns out. You don’t hear about vine age often in Santa Ynez, since most were planted A.S. (After Sideways).

My favorite was the 2006 Pesenti Vineyard Zinfandel ($40), from venerable 85yr old vines. Scents of dark chocolate and strawberry jam welled up above the lip of the glass, and the garnet liquid tasted of grape jelly and had a velvety mouth feel. Paso Zins seem to be all about texture—they’re rough, or suede, or velvet, and my own personal favorite descriptor: cat-tongue. I made that one up myself. My boyfriend’s pick was the 2006 “Juvenile” California Zin ($22), tasting like black cherries with a big fruity nose, rich and round. At this point, I was mentally composing my “Thank You” email to George.

Turley Wine Cellars

2900 Vineyard Dr.

Templeton, CA

$10 for 5 pours

Our next stop, Four Vines, was not on George’s list. I found it during my pre-trip research and thought it was a sure bet due to the many glowing recommendations on Yelp and TripAdvisor.

As soon as we stepped out of the car and I saw a man in an 18^th century white wig in period garb quickly disappear behind a fence. I blinked twice, turned to my boyfriend and asked, “Did you see what I saw?” Before I could fully form theories about ghosts and/or hallucinogenic mushrooms, we entered the tasting room and saw more costumes – the staff was dressed up for the release of the newest vintage of “Monarchy.” The world made sense again—too bad really.

The tasting room was packed with what appeared to be wine-limo tour groups. Tasters get to choose their glasses from a number of designs. I chose a glass with the anarchy symbol etched on one side; my boyfriend chose the more politically ambivalent four vines design. The attitude of the wine labels, décor and staff was uniformly fun, casual and irreverent; the attitude of the tasters was “let’s get drunk and ask really stupid questions.” Four Vines makes a lot of wines, and the tasting menu is chaotic. We couldn’t keep track of what we were tasting half the time, though I do have some notes that say “the stinky-manure award goes to the 2006 ‘Maverick’ Zin.” Nothing was terrible, but nothing was exciting either. Our fellow tipsy tasters didn’t seem to care what the wines were– but they did enjoy the numerous and generous pours.

One of the winemakers was giving free barrel tastings for the release event, so we joined the limo tour in a dimly lit room to learn about and taste the new vintages. This could have been really cool; it certainly had an entertaining aesthetic. The room was unnecessarily dark with a gothic crystal chandelier dangling in the center, and tall iron candelabras provided flickering light. Barrels formed a circle beneath walls draped with black cloth. It was like the Phantom of the Opera’s wine cellar. But the other tasters quickly sucked the mysterious goth atmosphere right out of the room. These middle aged, fairly respectable looking people weren’t there to educate their palettes or appreciate the art of wine-making. Their sole purpose appeared to be to have a fun, drunk day out—like, that’s what wine tasting means to them. I’m still a bit bewildered by this. Anyways, if you think that sounds like a fine and dandy goal, then Four Vines is for you.

Four Vines

3750 Hwy. 46 West. Templeton

$7 for a lot of pours – I lost count

After giving Four Vines every chance to produce an interesting wine, we left tipsy, even though we poured out most of the wine. There were just a lot of pours. We nixed the idea of trying to hit a third winery, sobered up on snacks, and drove North for 3 hours.

To be continued.