Beautiful Bombay

As the plane approaches the runway to land we can see miles and miles of shanty towns flowing in waves right up to the runway. That seems like a security hazard to us.
We’ve arrived after dark, but agree Mumbai (formerly called Bombay) seems much cleaner than Delhi.

The city is very metropolitan. No cows. No auto rickshaws. Women are much more scantily clad here than in Delhi. It’s very much like New York, with an Indian spice for flavor.
Our hotel is posh and the most ‘real’ hotel of our trip. A glass elevator looks down on an interior atrium and the sixth floor holds a pool with a glass bottom; which looks down on the lobby.

It’s a sharp contrast to the poverty that makes up the majority of Mumbai.

We take a cab to Chowpatty Beach. Hundreds of people are milling about, sitting on mats eating, children running around. It’s a carnival stuck in time. There are children's rides operated by hands. A small ferris wheel is turned by two men; one standing on the middle bar and turning from the top while a second man turns from the bottom. A small Viking boat swings back and forth, gaining it’s momentum by a stout man with think forearms. Games are set up in the beach. Melissa steps up to the ring toss but isn't good enough to win one of the prizes: a bar of soap. (Irony is sorely lacking in India)

The real draw here are the food stalls. We stroll through them slowly while men badger us from all sides to have a seat on their mat. We spot two other white people and sidle up to see what they’re eating. I ask the guy what they’ve ordered; he has no idea but says it’s good. We take a chance and aren’t disappointed. We find out that it’s called dola puri and seems to be hardened puffed bread with a hallow inside stuffed with chutney, yogurt, and … ummm… well, we’re not really sure what else. Maybe beans. Maybe some mint. But there is no denying that it’s delicious. Next we try bheri pori, which has potatoes and some of the same ingredients. On the surface it looks the same but as is often the case in India, a little tweaking goes a long way and it ends up tasting very different. We wander over to another stall and order a dosa. These are thin breads spread over a griddle and cooked, much like a crepe, then stuffed with veggies. Yummy!

The next morning we peel back the curtains to see a view of the beach only to be meet with a wall of smog. Not surprising in a country so dirty but disappointing since it promised to be a stunning panorama.

We lost an entire day of sightseeing yesterday due to a 7 hour flight delay into Mumbai. Our plane was originating in Delhi which was literally shut down because of heavy fog. We spent two hours trying to get a straight answer from airport officials, a hard task in any airport in the world but an impossibility in India. Eventually we checked into an airport hotel. Cost: $20. At home that would buy you a crack den room with stained sheets. Here it buys you a hot shower with good water pressure and a pool. We eventually make our flight despite three different people confirming three different departure times.

The lost day has created a packed day of sightseeing which might prove to be a challenge in the moist heat of the day. We tackle Elephanta Caves first since they will take the most time.

These Hindu carvings are located on an island about one hour off shore. Getting on the boat is a bit precarious and involves a walk down slippery stone steps, a lot of pushing and shoving by local school kids and at least a dozen women in burkas. Melissa and I spend a lot of time in low conversation wondering how they can wear such a heavy black cloak over their body and face in such heat. I’ve already sweated through my shirt and the day has barely begun. Our guide is an elderly woman who we have to help onto the boat. She starts talking about how Muslims are infecting the world. And even though the women covered head to toe in black clearly don’t speak English, we find the guide's obvious prejudice a bit unsettling. It’s hard to tell if they are her real convictions or if she’s saying it for our benefit given the attacks here a year ago.

We arrive at the island to discover we have a 120-step climb to reach the temples; always a delight when you’re already sweating! In typical Indian fashion the steps are lined with makeshift stands selling all manner of trinkets. We eyeball a few for consideration on the way back.

The temple is stupendous. The caves are actually man-made, the rock scooped out by hand and primitive tools. It's hard to imagine given how cavernous it is inside and the intricate detail given to the statues and pillars. The temple is dedicated to the Hindu god, Shiva, and his form is carved out in several different poses and scenes. It all has a very ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark’ feel to it, although the entire sight is almost trumped by the platoon of monkeys that live on the island. There are at least a dozens, including some babies, scampering outside the entrance, and they are funny to watch. (Hey, what can I say. City girl + wild life = huge smile)

Back in the city proper we retreat to the famous Taj hotel to escape the heat. Security is tight and we are surprised they even allow tourists inside. If this were New York it would be closed to everybody but guests, probably forever. But here in India the Taj is considered a second home to the citizens of Mumbai; to close it is unthinkable.

Other than the security and a simple memorial there are no signs of the attack a year ago. We wander around the marble lobby and peek out at the pool surrounded by palm trees and patches of grass where people have spread blankets.

We meet a new guide after lunch for a city tour. She's younger than the one from this morning, but no less prejudice. She makes random comments about Muslims. Incidentally, we met a man in the elevator of our hotel who also made a comment about black people. I can't say the prejudice surprises me as much as the willingness to offer it up to strangers.

Our city tour is by car. Not usually my preference but it’s so hot outside that I am grateful for inventions such as air conditioned vehicles. Mumbai has a strange but beautiful mix of British Victorian and Art Deco architecture. The soaring Victoria Train Station is topped with a massive dome and spreads out like a government building with various wings and arches and turrets. From the waterline we view a mosque that sits on a little island. It’s linked to the shore by a narrow sliver of land that is covered during high tide.

Then the driver pulls up to a curb crowded with people and smoke and hawkers. Over a low wall we see a jumble of buildings and worry the guide is taking us to see a slum. Tours of the slums are available in Mumbai but we decided to pass; this country is so poor that we didn’t feel the need to see more of it when it’s out in front of our face every day.

But it wasn’t a slum.

It was the city’s laundromat. Huge stone tubs filled with water spread out below us. Ten thousand men work in this enterprise, slapping clothes against the stone. Brilliant white shirts hang on one line, while across the way dozens of jeans flap in the breeze. There’s an area for sheets, another for saris, one more for socks. Smoke from burning coal is billowing out of one corner, making us wonder how the clothes remain clean. It’s the most amazing thing I’ve seen and looks completely chaotic. Our guide tells us that everyone in the city -- rich, middle and lower class -- sends their wash to this place. She insists that your clothes are returned sparkling clean and they are never ruined from the constant smacking against stone. Check out the video below -- seeing is believing.

Our last stop is a synagogue. There are about 4,000 Jews living in Mumbai. The man collecting entry fees is about 80 and tells us he’s from Syria. He says most of the Jews that worship here are from Iraq and other Middle East countries. The interior is lovely and cool and painted an eggshell blue. Windows are open to let in the afternoon breeze. The front of the temple is set with a kaleidoscope of stained glass.

Back at the hotel we debate where to eat dinner. There are too many tasty choices to try in our short time here. We decide on Trishna which we’re told is the mecca of seafood in Mumbai.

And we’re not disappointed: The butter garlic crab melts in our mouth and a fish called pomfret that’s been steamed in a banana leaf is light and flaky.

The next day is our last in Mumbai.

We spend our last few hours having high tea at the Taj. As a former British colony this event is no small matter. Melissa chooses masala chai from a thick tea menu; a white Darjeerlang tea for me. Delicious chicken and cucumber salad sandwiches with the crust cut off, mini quiche, tiny samosas and of course an assortment of miniature desserts.

Afterwards we take some final pictures in front of India Gate. A young shoe shine boy tries to drum up some business until he realizes we’re wearing sandals. He has a beautiful face and such a cheerful, sincere smile. And it’s not long before teenage boys start asking for pictures. Melissa agrees… for 50 Rupees. They are shocked at the asking price and try to haggle her down! It’s a delightful reversal of tourist vs. local. The shoe shine boy is her champion and agrees she shouldn’t take less than 30 Rupees. In the end, she takes one for free with the boys that find her so exotic.

I don’t now how we’ll survive at home without such an avid fan club!

Floating on the Back Waters

We boarded our house boat today. The outside looks like a thatched hut although we’re happy to see the inside structure is made of more solid materials. Our room is much nicer than we expect with a big bed, hard food floors and a sizable bathroom (at least for a boat.)

There are three crew members on board: Georgie, Gobi and another man whose name we can’t understand. They alternate between driving the boat and cooking. Georgie is the only one who speaks any semblance of English. He asks us where we’re from three separate times which suggests he speaks English better than he understands. We discuss the possible problems of riding on a boat in the middle of nowhere with three men who speak no English, but decide like most things in India, it will work out.

And it does.

The food is amazing: spicy eggplant in some kind of sauce, naan that we watched them bang out 30 minutes earlier and spicy fried fish.

The scenery is stunning: green rice paddies stretch to the horizon like a florescent green shaggy carpet while palm trees sway on thin stretches of land that separate some of the canals. And there are people living out here in small, brightly colored houses, walking along paths that run close to the water and waving as we ride past. Even though there are dozens of other house boats in the water we still feel like we are alone. It’s amazing to me that people live this way, so simply. They do have electricity but I’m guessing no running water. We pass a school with a gaggle of kids outside making their way home. Some start along the path while others are being picked up in long, narrow boats.

We eventually dock, which really involves just pulling up alongside land and trying up to some trees. Again, we think about how easy it would be for someone to just climb on board in the middle of the night. But out here, that just doesn’t seem to be what people are about. Besides, our room locks from the inside. The sun is a blazing orange-red as it sets behind the palm trees and darkness slowly creeps into the backwaters. The sounds of nature start to come alive with chirping and squawking.

Despite my natural inclination to get sea sick I wear my wristbands the entire time and do ok on the boat. The calm waters also help. Bedtime become quite comical when we turn the AC on and convince ourselves the room smells like fuel. We finally decide that we’ll leave the AC on, turn on the fan, open the window and sleep with the mosquito net down. Yes, we’re wasting energy. But better than gassing ourselves in the middle of the night. I drop off without notice and wake up to a still dark morning.

We get dressed and walk onto the deck to watch the day come alive. The moon is still out and reflects off the water, while the sun also spreads light across the top of palm trees. People are washing clothes along the river edge, which involves a dunk and then repeated slapping of said article of clothing against rock. It has become a familiar sound. People are also bathing and brushing their teeth in water that would certainly give me a unhappy stomach.

Despite all the activity it’s still quiet and peaceful and a small slice of life so different from our own.

Another Day in Paradise

We’re at the Pummunda Resort. It’s located about 2 hours south of Cochin in an area of Kerela state called the backwaters. That makes it sound like a sewer but it’s actually breathtakingly beautiful. The lake is a perfect still mirror reflecting all the palm trees. Canals run throughout the property, creating the need for graceful, arched bridges.

Our villa is designed as a traditional house with a very high door which requires us to take a big step into the room. The bathroom is outdoors. Toilet. Shower. Sink. All outdoors. A bit freaky at first but we quickly warm to the idea.

We spend the entire next day lolling about at the pool which we take frequent advantage of due to the boiling hot temperature.

There is an ayurvada spa here. These are typical medical spas that people come to for a week or more to deal with a variety of problems. They usually offer all sorts of odd procedures, such as pouring warm coconut oil on your forehead for 45 minutes. For the purposes of this resort, they have a much more simple menu. We opt for the general massage which lasts one hour and costs about $20 US.

Now, if you know Melissa and I, you know we both adore cheap massages. The $3 one I had in Vietnam remains the best to this day. I step into a room with a short Indian women who speaks practically no English. She motions for me to get undressed. I’m not modest, but a little privacy please! But it was not to be. She unsnapped my bra from behind! I think “OK. Just go with it. She sees hundreds of naked white girls a day.” She has me sit on a stool and starts pouring this foul smelling oil over my head. It smells like beef stock and I’m trying really hard not to inhale through my noise. She starts giving me a nice head massage, although it’s hard for me to relax completely since I’m sitting in front of her buck naked. After a few minutes she has me move to the table. More beef stock. Then a rapid rub down. It actually feels good, although I prefer the more traditional type where they rub out knots in your neck. Finally, she has me roll over. The massage continues and honestly, I am not sure how I am not suppose to burst out laughing when she starts rubbing my chest. I mean, seriously? I spend most of the massage biting my lip to keep from cracking up, which of course is not the ideal mind set for relaxation. The massage ends with her pouring warm water and washing the beef stock off me like a baby.

Honestly, it wasn’t so bad. Just not my cup of tea.

Melissa’s take? She fell asleep!

New Year’s Eve day we spend being utterly useless. Across from the pool hotel workers are buzzing about getting ready for the festivities. Apparently it’s going to be a big deal. Later we put on some mascara and bug spray and take a giant step out of our door to walk over to the party. We’re seated at a romantic table, lake-side, white table cloth and candle. Too bad we don’t love each other THAT much! A temporary fountain has been built near the shore and lights are strung throughout the trees. Soon a woman takes the makeshift stage that’s been erected. She bubbly and squeaky and happy. And completely annoying. We watch a traditional dance performance. And then another. And then one more. And still it’s not time to eat. It’s time for games! Oh yes, games. Like a bridal shower. We try not to make eye contact with her, hoping she won’t choose us. But this only lasts for so long and eventually we find ourselves on stage with some women from Sweden, and Indian guy and some Australians. We’re playing a kind of musical chairs, except instead of sitting we have to jump onto a piece of cloth. The music stops and all 10 of us jump on, I’m clutching onto Melissa from behind, she’s shoved up against the Swedish lady and the Indian and Australian guy are way too close for comfort. We’re all hysterical. Later, Melissa wins us a giant Cadbury chocolate bar for being the only person to correctly guess the date for Chinese New Year’s. (That’s our trip to Vietnam paying off!)

Finally it’s time to eat. There are at least 30 silver turins filled with every type of Indian food imaginable. There’s also pasta. Seven different salads. A “Live Salad” table, which means they mix up your veggies of choice. One man is grilling fresh shrimp, another is making naan and roti on the spot. The food is all yummy. My favorite is the chocolate ice cream. I don’t know if they make it here or it’s shipped in from another country. But it’s the best chocolate ice cream I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a lot.

As the eating winds down, the cheerful MC tries to get people on the dance floor. The problem is they are only playing Euro trash house music. Even the French people aren’t into it. I ask if they have Michael Jackson? No. Madonna? No. Sigh. It’s going to be a long 30 minutes until the clock strikes 12.

It eventually does, bringing with it fireworks. And while they're no Macy’s Fourth of July, they are more impressive than we expect. Locals have gathered in several boats off our shore to watch the show. Soon it’s all over. And Melissa and I return to our little wood villa to eat the yummy plum cake the hotel gave all the guests for New Year’s while we watch the ‘Sex in the City’ movie. Happy New Year’s!

The Jews of India

The humidity hits us like a wall as we exit the airport in Cochin, a town in southern India. It had recently rained -- a lot -- and there are huge puddles everywhere. The warmth is a welcome relief after the chill of northern India.

The city is having a strike the day we arrive and we’re told all the shops will be closed and we'll have to walk because no cars are allowed until after 6pm. That’s ok with us; we’re tired of being driven everyplace. We tell our guide that we’re New Yorkers -- we like to walk!

The morning starts off just mildly steamy. We have breakfast at the hotel along the water. It reminds me a bit of Bangkok; with small boats ferrying goods back and forth along a liquid highway. Then it’s time to head out. We’re drenched in sweat in 10 minutes -- now we know why the guide looked a bit concerned.

Still, we solider on because we’ve been looking forward to visiting Cochin’s neighborhood called Jew Town. There are about 20 “white” Jews still living here and another 20 “black” Jews living in another neighborhood of Cochin. Our first stop is the synagogue. We have to remove our shoes, not for religious reasons, but to preserve the blue and white tile floor. Hundreds of tiles were shipped from China and no two designs are alike. Pictures are forbidden, but in typical fashion, Melissa and I take a few without flash. There are dozens of glass globe lights hanging from the ceiling and an upper balcony where women sit during service. There’s an eternal light near the front; unfortunately the Torah isn’t available for viewing.

It’s different from any temple I’ve ever seen.

When we leave we covertly check out the girl taking tickets. She’s clearly Jewish and looks like she’s from Bay Ridge. But she doesn’t look like she wants to talk so we don’t approach her. I suspect Jews approach her all the time asking the same questions over and over.

We wander around the narrow lanes of Jew Town, snapping pictures of signs in Hebrew, plaques saying Shalom, street signs. There are shops selling matzoh covers and yarmulkes. One shop is run by a old woman. Sarah Cohen. She looks like she’s from Borough Park. We ask her where she’s from originally. She says Cochin. Even though her English is accented she has the mannerisms of any Jewish person from New York. It’s odd to think that’s she was born here, grew up in India and is Jewish. We never get a chance to ask, but I think they must have to travel to Israel or another country in order to find a Jewish husband or wife since the Jewish population is so small, and they clearly aren’t having interracial marriages.

I’m impressed and a little proud of them, just like I was of the Jews in Cuba. It takes a lot of nerve to carry on in what you believe in when the surrounding community is largely something else. There is a huge population of Muslims in southern India. But strangely we don’t see very many Mosques. What we do see are hundreds of churches. Cochin and Goa (a city to the north) were founded in large part by the Portuguese. As such there is a large Christian population in Cochin and around every corner there’s a church or mini alter to Jesus. It’s a strange sight after seeing so many Hindu temples.

But there is a Hindu temple next to the Synagogue that's preparing for a festival where two elephants are being honored. One of the Hindu gods, Ginesh, has the head of an elephant on a human body and elephants are revered in this country. There are dozens of locals milling about, taking pictures with the elephants.

We take an auto rickshaw back past our hotel to the other side of town. There fishermen catch their daily load with gigantic nets strung up between several wood poles. The entire contraption looks like a huge spider on a web. They are lowered into the water and pulled up when they are full of fish. Fish of all sizes are spread out on tables as people mill about deciding what to buy. Men yell out to us saying we can choose a fish and they will cook them on the spot for us. I’m not that brave, but the idea is intriguing.

Cochin was once a major stop along the spice route to Asia and spices are sold everywhere out of large buckets. The city strike has shut down the wholesalers which is a shame because I imagine that would be exciting to see. But the spice retailers are open and one woman with a beautiful face lets us sniff different kinds of powders and nuggets. In an open courtyard, ginger is being dried out in the open.

It's not just the hot weather that makes southern India so different from the north. They have a 98% literacy rate here, which probably accounts for less people begging on the streets. We do run across young budding entrepreneurs who have set up a Santa Claus and are charging for pictures. Their smiles are captivating and well worth the few rupees we give them. Another boy rides by on a bike and stops to say hello and ask for a pen. We don't have one to give him so we offer a piece of gum. Then he lets Melissa ride his bike while taking pictures of her with my camera. Another moment in travel where laughter breaks through any language barriers.

Men also dress in traditional outfits called lungis, which look like beach sarongs. They wear them long and short. When they're short they look like mini skirts and it's a funny sight that never fails to make us snicker.

We only have a few more hours in Cochin before we have to leave, but it’s midday and the heat is taking it’s toll. We decide to break for lunch at this place that serves chocolate samosas. I am much more excited by the idea of this than Melissa. Southern India is also know for it’s spectacular seafood; I get a mixture of different seafoods while Melissa gets stuffed peppers. Both are delicious. But it’s the dessert I’m here for and I tell the waiter I already know what I want before he brings the dessert menu. The look like little fried ravioli, floating in a mango sauce. I’m a bit disappointed to discover it’s more like chocolate sauce than fudge. But they’re still yummy and the mango sauce is tangy and offsets the sweetness of the chocolate.

Now it’s off to our three days of rest and relaxation!

Random Thoughts From India

1. Why does the official working the information desk at the airport need to know where we arrived from when we ask if there’s a day room in the terminal? And after inquiring about what time our flight leaves why does he ask us why we arrived here so early? What does it matter!!

2. Why does the woman checking in our bags at a glacier speed then tell me to hurry up?

3. Why did our driver’s car catch fire in the trunk after we got out?

4. Why are the 2 domestic terminals, which exist in the same building, not connected? (Thus making it impossible for us to use the day room???)

5. Why in a country full of help-desks can I not find anyone to explain why the free wi-fi isn’t working?

6. Why do men (and not women) dye their hair with henna, turning it the most ridiculous cherry-apple color of red?

7. Why do street beggers have cell phones… but there is not a garbage collection system in the entire country?

The Taj Mahal

It looks fake.

We’re on a large bus with 13 other people from the wedding, including the bride and groom. I hate bus travel and tours, but this is a special occasion. The traffic to Agra is horrific. Worse than Delhi. Worse than that time I sat with family for one and a half hours at a standstill outside the Lincoln Tunnel on the Friday before Easter AND Passover. THE. WORST. Our four hour drive has taken seven. We’re giddy and tired and stiff and sick of snacking on junk food.

Our bus slowly turns the corner of a narrow street like the Queen Mary II trying to dock. And suddenly I spot it. In the distance. I shout “There it is” and everyone scrambles to the left side of the bus for their first sight of the thing we’ve suffered in traffic to reach.

Your first sight of it is through a gate, although ‘gate’ suggests a white picket fence that your swing open, when in fact this gate is four stories high and decked out with marble and semi-precious stones laid out in flower and plant designs.

Through the archway of the gate the Taj is perfectly framed. Like a mini picture you would see on a coaster or calendar or another of the dozens of items you’ve already seen this famous monument on. Its perfect white dome and four minerates all in perfect symmetry. There are easily two thousand people (at least that we can see) pushing and crowding to get the perfect photograph.

But of course that’s impossible. Because no picture we take captures even half of the soaring structure or the excitement in the air. We pass through the gate and step up to a long pool that reflects the Taj. Another try at a perfect picture. It’s about an hour to sunset and from this distance the snowy white dome looks soft and fuzzy and honestly, like a backdrop that you would stand in front of in Las Vegas.

We snap and snap and snap away. From low vantage points, self-portraits, group shots, from the right, dead-center.

Then the guide tells us we aren’t able to go inside because it’s closing soon and the line is too long.

Sorry? What was that?

I am mad, until I look at Melissa and realize she’s not mad at all. Now, the Taj has been her reason for India. Her crowning moment of the trip (at least until she bought the travel chess set)

“Why aren’t you mad?” I asked. “Just follow me,” she says. Which Amy and I do, only to find ourselves cutting the line and suddenly inside the outer area of the tomb. Now, you must understand that rules are a suggestion in India and everybody is cutting the line. Still, 90% of the tourists are Indian and three very pale white women stand out. Still, we manage to get on the second line to enter the tomb, this one wrapping around the entire building. And we do get inside. But because it’s lit with natural light, and it’s about 10 minutes to sunset, it’s almost pitch black inside. It’s also jammed with people. We link hands and walk around the tomb, which we’ve read is covered in semi-precious stones.

Still, we consider it a victory. Eight-thousand miles to India and NOT enter the Taj Mahel? I don’t think so.

Up close, the outside of the Taj is … well, there really isn’t a word to describe it. The sun is setting on one side, creating an orange-red glow behind mosque that stands to one side. And on the opposite side, the moon is rising in between one of the minerats and another building built to mirror the mosque. (It serves no purpose and was only built to create visual symmetry.) We continue to take pictures that will never measure up to the reality. Close-ups of the carvings that run along the wall, of the soaring double arches, of the masses of people below that didn’t make it inside.

We ask a guy about our age to take a picture of us. He does. And then asks if he can have a picture with us. Before we know it, Indian people are coming at us from all sides, politely requesting photographs with us. It’s strange and funny at the same time. Young girls, mothers with babies, groups of teenage boys snapping pictures with their cell phones. We pose with at least 30 different people before we are able to get away. One group of girls tells us we’re beautiful. Anyone that has seen my air hair-dry knows this is not possible.

We have no idea why they find us interesting enough to take a picture, why we are so popular, why most of them are too shy to ask until they see one brave person take a chance and then they all want to do the same.

This must be what it’s like to be a celebrity; hounded for your picture by people that don’t really know anything about you but think you’re pretty and fantastic. Damn. We should have charged 50 Rupees per photo.

If we’re a bit full of ourselves when we return, you’ll know why.

I'm... Too Sexy for This Sari

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Lubna and Pravez are the most wonderful hosts. We spent one hour talking with Pravez about religion of all things. He is a joke teller. What he calls non-vegetarian jokes. And with all people whose first language is NOT English, there is an odd mish-mash of phrases that are funny to hear.
“One should like to investigate the mind and expand a horizon” or “You should put on a very sad and forlorn face like you are lost in the woods and someone is certainly sure to assist you” (Picture it with an Indian accent)

We talk about how a smile is the same in any language, the great equalizer. He offers us both financial advise and why he thinks it’s important to seize the day. We discuss how families in western countries no longer eat meals together or travel together like Indian families do. And then he announces that ’Sex in the City’ is his favorite show and wants to know if that’s really what life is like for the single girl.

We spend the day lounging about the B&B ahead of our pre-wedding party. Lubna and Pravez invite us to join them for lunch. Pravez’s mother (who lives with them) is also there. The food is some of the best we’ve had in India; I fear Indian food is ruined for me back home. We have a dish that looks like a bowl of Thousand Island dressing but the neon orange sauce is savory and cheesy. They make us fresh roti and a curry vegetable dish. Yum!

Lubna helped us into our saris for the party the night before the wedding. Mine is turquoise with fushia, trimmed in glittery sequins; Melissa’s is black and red with silver flowers and trim. We’re thankful for her help, because it involves a lot of wrapping and pleating and tucking. We felt like girls being helped by our mom for our first prom. Once we were properly sari-ed, she determined we didn’t have enough bling and insisted on loaning us her expensive costume jewelry.

The party was at Surbhai’s uncle’s house, which is about a one-hour drive outside of Delhi. It’s an interesting contrast; we turn off the highway onto dirt roads, dirty barefoot kids running around, cows roaming the street. And the house is at the end of the block, red lights strung down the entire front of the house to indicate a marriage in the family. In a park next door an enormous pink tent has been erected. It all has a very Arabian nights feeling. Inside the tent, there are boys doing henna on ladies hands and arms and a traditional Rahjistani band is playing. Guests are removing their shoes and sitting on the cushioned floor to listen to the singers and talk. There are so many different color of dress; orange trimmed in gold sequins, a red and brown quilted design, sheer saris and those made of silk, vibrant pinks and muted greens. I would say it’s like a rainbow but that doesn’t do it justice.

Our palms, wrists and fingers are covered in intricate henna designs. I’m amazed at the boys doing the work; how do they keep so many different designs and patterns in their heads? They do dozens of them, all different from the next, and at lightening speed.

Afterwards we sit waiting for it dry with our hands up in the air to prevent our bangles from sliding down and ruining the henna. It’s unseasonably cold in Delhi and we can see our breath in white puff and our toes are freezing, not to mention our exposed mid-drift which our saris have left open to the elements.

But soon our henna is dry and just in time because the buffet is finally open. It’s set up like Indian street food, serving all the favorites that are sold in markets across India, but at a higher quality level. And it’s all so delicious! The chat is mind-numbingly scrumptious, a scientific blend of a crunchy fried bread thing, spiced yogurt, mint chutney and a mix of foreign spices. It can be made with any number of ingredients, but this is certainly the best I’ve ever had. Dozens of men are standing behind large, metal pan that look like giant woks mixing each order on command.

I try something that looks like a little roll, except it’s fried to be hard and hallow inside and filled with what looks like green pea soup. Actually, it looks gross. But I take a chance and am glad I did because it tastes nothing like it looks. It’s spicy and strangely has a meaty flavor. We eat delicately spiced veggies and fire-hot dosa, which are bread stuffed with all sorts of mouth-watering items.

Next, we have some fried bits of dough filled with potato and veggies and spice. We expect a samosa flavor but it tastes nothing like that.

Enough appetizers. We move to the main course table. Mini naans and roti; dal made of lentils, some kind of cheese cube in a tomato gravy-type sauce.

We are getting some attention from what I can only assume are single boys at the party. They cluster in a large group of about 10 and stare and whisper about us, making no attempt to pretend they are doing otherwise. Nobody else seems to notice they are doing it and like much in India we just take it in stride as they aren’t doing it in a way that is rude or makes us uncomfortable. It’s actually quite funny to be honest.

A DJ has started to play loud dance music, a mix of Indian and Bollywood and Euro trash. We decide to dance with the other girls and young boys despite the stares from our growing fan club.

One of Surbhai’s aunts comes over to tell us how nice we look in our saris and tells Melissa she wears her sari well. It’s a quirky phrase and we love it.

Breakfast the next morning at Lubna and Pravez’s B&B is a full house; an older Israeli man has checked in, as has a Canadian couple. Conversation is flying around the table, vying for space amongst Pravez’s jokes about Hindus, Jews and Muslims.

We take an auto rickshaw into the city to meet Amy for a day of shopping ahead of the wedding later tonight. We had ridden one through the old city, but this was on the highway and quite the adventure. Picture ridding an open cart on the FDR. It was a bit cold. At a traffic light on the entrance ramp we are accosted by young boys selling magazines; Marie Claire, India Today, Fortune. Their arms are stretching into the rickshaw as they babble at us “50 rupee” “you buy?” “what you like madam” before we speed off.

The shopping was great in Delhi. We focus on Connaught Place, which is a giant outer circle in north Delhi surrounding an inner circle, both of which are clogged with traffic. Streets spike out from the circles and we wander on the main one as shop keepers try to lure us inside. We look at scarves and before we know it, we are inside, sitting with cups of tea, haggling with the tall, handsome shop owner who is originally from Kasmir. We don’t leave empty-handed.

Much to our delight (more mine that Melissa’s, who is growing weary of my shopping disease) we happen upon the equivalent of a New York City street fair. Soon we’re weighed down with earrings and glass hanging lights, $2 shirts and elaborately painted metal dishes. The haggling is great fun and we’re getting very good at it. The key it to walk away like you mean it. One man insisted on 500 Rupees for one shirt (which is about $10), I countered with 100 ($2.) He said 400, I said 100. And on it went until I walked away and he ran after me, agreeing to 100 Rupees.

But the coup of the day was Melissa’s travel chess set. The previous day a boy had tried to sell her one outsideof the Red Fort. She doesn’t really play chess. But she likes how compact and convenient it was, the cleverness of the idea. So when a boy offered one up in the market for 650 Rupees, it was game-on. He followed us for half the market but he never stood a chance. Melissa was soon the proud owner of a smart, handmade wood box concealing a travel chess set for 100 rupees!

Afterwards we stumbled onto the food section. First we tried some dumplings from a little cart called Momo’s. Veggies and paneer (cheese) -- both were full of flavor, with a dipping sauce that set my lips on fire and turned them a rosy red. As we were gulping an orange Fanta soda in a vain attempt to cut some of the spiciness we spied two girls eating a large fried ball of something. We held up a finger to order one and paid the equivalent of 50 cents before tearing it apart with our fingers. This definitely makes it into Top Ten Things We Ate in India; fried hard on the outside, doughy on the inside, and filled with a mix of potatoes and spices and veggies. I know, I know -- all the food seems to contain the same ingredients. So, how can it all taste SO different?

One of the mysteries of this strange, dirty country.

Later, as we’re getting ready for the wedding, there’s a knock on the door. It’s Lubna offering to help us with our saris once again. And she’s not empty handed; she has bought us gifts, a set each of the colorful handmade tea cups in her house that we’ve complimented her on. It’s a sweet gesture and another of the long list of reasons why we have warmed to her so much.

Today, I’m swathed in a royal blue sari dotted with silver studs, a flower and bird design laid out on the end part that hangs down my back. Melissa’s sari is Caribbean-sea blue, a mosaic of gold, brown and black flowers running along the bottom and down the back. They are actually quite comfortable, once you get past the fear that they are sure to unravel, leaving you naked in the middle of India.

We feel elegant and exotic and as we pack both saris away that night we vow to have a sari night out when we return to New York.

2 Days in Delhi

Imagine you’re stuck in traffic on the Grand Central Parkway in front of LaGuardia Airport. You’re slowly inching past a cow munching on garbage to your right. To your left, a man is sitting on a high wooden stool, his head tipped back as another man lathers his face with shaving cream and prepares to scrape it clean of hair.

Welcome to Delhi.

We did have a lovely surprise when we exited the airport: Our driver, C.P., was there! We had asked the tour company if he could be our driver in Delhi as well, and they said since it was such a busy season they weren’t sure he was free. So it was heart-warming to see his friendly smile waiting for us.

And lucky for us, because he’s a agile driver and the traffic here is horrific. Worse than anything anyone has warned us about. The eye candy makes it all worth it though.

We took a chance in Delhi and booked a bed and breakfast stay ourselves (not through the tour company.) We fretted about whether the beds would be ok, if the room would be clean, if the house would smell.

Lubna is our host and she greeted us with tea and small snacks. When she found out we missed lunch, nothing could stop her from rushing to kitchen and returning with a rice that was both fruity and spicy and layered with flavor. We topped it with a little spicy chutney and some chopped cucumbers and tomatoes (hopefully that won’t come back to bite us in the ass.)

Her house is beautiful and reminds me of a Mexican hacienda. There’s a sky light that shines from four floors up all the way down to the foyer. The first floor has a sitting room with low couches sitting on carved legs and a coffee table with elephants for legs. As we climb up to our room on the top floor we pass by the private living area, through a mini outdoor area filled with plants stuffed into interesting planters in the shapes of frogs, cats and camels, up one more flight to our room. And it’s perfect, with comfy beds, a flat screen TV and free wi-fi! Woo-hoo.

The guides on this tour are almost as much fun as the site seeing. Our man in Delhi is called Lileet Kumar and he is the Indian version of John Travolta. Not only does he hav his face and dimples and chin cleft…. But he arrived to show us Delhi wearing tight shiny pants. (And yes, that is a tiger on the back of his sweater.) He walks with the same strut as John does in “Saturday Night Fever.“ We walk several steps behind singing the song under our breath.

He also has an impressive uni-brow that looks like a fuzzy caterpillar about to jump off his face. We chat about dating in India and he tells us his girlfriend married another man this past summer. He looks so sad when he tells us and we once again wonder about how many broken hearts are left behind by the arranged marriages that are the norm in India.

We nickname him The Mayor, because he seems to know everyone. Everywhere we go he shakes hands, with the other guides, with the guard checking passes at each temple and fort, of the hawkers trying to sell us post cards. He is the only guide that talks to the small dirty children that beg. He takes their face in his hands and tickles them under the chin and makes them giggle. It makes us see a different side to this kids that have mostly been aggressive with us, and also a different side to our guides.

But he’s just 29 years old and has the cockiness of youth. He texts his friends a lot when he thinks we’re not looking.

We visit the massive Baha’is Lotus Temple which looks like an enormous lotus flower growing out of the ground and reaching towards the sky.

Then we sit in bumper to bumper cow-rickshaw-car-motorbike for 40 minutes before arriving at Humayun’s Tomb. This Muslim tomb is impressive and looks a bit like a mini Taj Mahal. In an odd twist of irony, the entire building has the star of David carved into it all over the place. They use it as just another geometric form, rather than a symbol of Judiasm. But I’m sure the irony is not lost on anyone Jewish visiting the tomb (or or any Muslims that are against the state of Israel.) It’s imposing and graceful at the same time.

A girl’s school field trip is in progress and hundreds of young teenagers in uniform are swarming the space. Suddenly, a group of about 6 girls come up to us and say “Hello!” It’s the only English they know and they chatter to our guide who desperately tries to keep up with his translating. They ask us where we’re from, how old we are (they guess 25, bless them.) One in particular reminds me of myself when I was 14; even though I don’t understand I word she’s saying I recognize her spunkiness and need to push the envelope. She’s sassy and it comes through despite the language barrier. They are also hyper and giggly and Melissa and I are completely charmed.

We were worried Delhi would swallow us whole. But so far it’s been nothing but kind, if not a bit frantic.

After a fabulous night’s sleep, followed by cold shower. Lubna’s help make us a breakfast feast: scrambled eggs, toast, Indian bread with onions, hot tea, fresh papaya. (All Indian families have help, even middle class families, because labor is so cheap here.) We talk with Lubna about work, Melissa’s boyfriend Dave, and shopping. The same stuff women all over the world talk about. She offers to take us shopping for an outfit for the night before a wedding, either a Saiwerkamz, which are baggy pants and a long shirt that comes below the knees with intricate embroidery, or a Langa, which is a skirt and top that are covered in beading and shiny stuff. She also says we can borrow some of her costume jewelry!

We meet our Travolta guide and C.P. for another day of traffic, forts and shopping. We visit the massive Red Fort which sits on the edge of the old city, as well as Jama Masjid, the second largest mosque in all of Asia. Indian families often travel together and one large group asks if they can take a picture with us. We agree. It’s not the first family of Indians that have asked to be photograph with us. We seem to be more of an attraction than the mosque.

Then we hire bicycle rickshaws and plunge into the maze that is old Delhi. Every narrow alleyway sells different items: one lane for saris, one for ribbons and trim, another for wedding directions, and yet another for desserts. The rickshaw drivers somehow manage to slip around obstacles where there seems to be no way to move forward. The seats are narrow and we both clutch the handle to hold ourselves steady.

Finally we hop off the rickshaw and walk around the old market. Laleet buys us street food; hopefully we won’t get sick later. First a jalebi, which is fried dough that tastes like a donut soaked in syrup, a hot spicy samosa with minty chutney, a treat that tastes like whipped cream with nuts and a foreign spice we can not identify, then a pured carrot mixture -- I know that sounds gross but it was yummy!

We still need something to wear tomorrow for the pre-wedding party. We slip off our shoes and step into a narrow shop selling Langas. But Indian women are smaller than Americans; it’s comical as we try to stuff our busty figures into tiny tops, the process involving a delicate dance of the shop keeper helping us while not touching us, while we try to keep our shirts underneath in place. As we don’t have enough to have one made, we quickly decide that Langas are out.

After a quick conference, we decide that maybe another sari is in order. We had bought saris in the U.S.; Lubna was shocked and appalled at how much we spent on them, so we knew we could get them much cheaper at the source.

We start feeling fabrics that are flapping from the open storefronts and eventually we’re lured into one shop. Nothing happens in India until you are seated and have declined a cup of tea. After we do this, sari after sari comes off the shelf. Azure blue covered in silver studs, hot pink with gold sequin swirls, royal purple with a princely velvet trim. There are so many colors and fabrics and designs that it’s exhausting to look at, let alone decide on just one.

Mr. Travolta looks like he is in physical pain. This is one shared manly trait; hatred of shopping, especially with women.

We finally choose; royal blue with a pretty silver flower pattern for me, turquoise with gold and black sequin flowers for Melissa. A man from the shop walks us down the lane to the tailor who will make our blouses. Just a little random fact for you non-Indians: all saris are the same size - 6 yards. You just wrap them more or less to alter the fit. And they all come with an extra yard to make a blouse, so that it’s the same color match.

The Gandhi museum provides a welcome break from the sari spectacle. We see the bed he slept in and where he was murdered. It’s familiar from the movie. The entire area is very quiet and calm, the opposite of what lays beyond the walls of the museum.

What do we do next? More shopping of course! And what do I buy? Another linen of course! But even Melissa buys something here, so I don’t feel so bad.

It’s dark when we’re dropped off at our hotel. We tip Laleet and C.P. well; not just for their services but for being silent men in a women’s shopping world.

We love Delhi.

Dining Like a Queen

Another palace today. This one in Udaipur. The city is actually beautiful, marble buildings surrounding a lake. Two palaces sit on separate islands in the lake. One of the them, The Lake Palace, is not open to tourists unless you’re staying there ($550 US a night.) You used to be able to dine there, but everyone we asked before we arrived in India said after the Mumbai attacks last year they now only allow guests.

Not one to be detered by rules (especially in a country that really doesn’t have any) I ask our guide to call the hotel and make us a reservation. After a fast-paced conversation in Hindi, he tells us dinner reservations are booked for a week, but we can have lunch.

First, we visit an intricately carved marble temple. Every inch is covered in elephants fighting and camels carrying cargo, men wrestling and scenes from the karma sutra, battles and Buddhas.

Then we tour the palace. It’s of course as beautiful as they have all been. The same, yet still different. Peaceful courtyards ringed with graceful white arches, framing glass mosaics, emerald green doors and frescos. I am eagerly looking forward to the museum devoted to Ganesh, the Hindu elephant god of prosperity and good luck that’s part of the palace. It’s suppose to have hundreds of Ganeshes in different sizes and colors and poses. I am crestfallen when we arrive to find it closed. I drag my feet in disappointment to the dock where we need to take the private boat over to the Lake Palace for lunch.

Reception is located on the mainland, and we check in for our lunch reservations and walk down to the jetty to sit on colorful cushioned chairs and wait for the boat.

The palace is a creamy vibrant white surrounded by water. While technically on an island, it’s built to the edge, so it looks as if it’s floating. Our little boat rounds a corner and there are steps leading down to the water, where a man waits to help us from the boat. Another man dressed like an manservant from the Raj period and he’s carrying a large velvet umbrella ringed with fringe and mini pom-poms. He holds it above our heads as we walk up the stairs. It’s really hot here, so thanks for the sun protection. But seriously? We’re trying very hard not to laugh.

At the top of the stairs we approach the glass doors to hotel entrance and rose petals start falling from the roof. There is actually a man up there, gently tossing petals off the roof as guests arrive!

A woman in a sari greets us in the lobby and we put our hands together and say “Namistay.”

We have 30 minutes until our reservation so we decide to wander about. Our guide said they don’t really allow you to walk around the property, but until someone stops us…

Past the lobby is a sitting area with plush purple chairs and wood tables set with chess and checkers and bat gammon pieces. Beyond that is a bar decked out white lounge benches and small sitting areas, which lead out to an outdoor patio. It’s the smoking area, but empty, so we choose a spot under an umbrella to drink in the breathtaking view. It’s quiet here and smells like fruity flowers.

A waiter appears with a think drink menu, spiced almonds and wasabi peas. Melissa orders a mango bellini, I have a lychee martini. Both are delicious and before we know it we’re red-cheeked and flushed with alcohol and giddiness.

Soon we’re being lead to the dining room, which is a sumptuous and extravagant with a stand of water in the middle, flowers floating on the top. We’re eating at the tail end of the lunch hour, so we’re able to get a table at the window. Views of the palaces lining the shore. The ridiculously expensive Oberoni hotel with it’s sandstone domes sits on the opposite shore. This is the type of high-end restaurant where the chef sends out free stuff. Ours is some type of grilled bread that smells and tastes faintly of chocolate, pureed beans and chopped apples infused with spices so that it tastes like apple pie filling.

We order a bruchetta sampler that is savory and delicious. We are delirious at the thought of a non-Indian meal. Melissa orders baked eggplant and I get pancetta wrapped chicken stuffed with mushroom. We share our dishes; I think hers is better while she prefers mine. We have a second round of drinks after the waiter insists on escorting first me, then Melissa, to the bathroom. A pecan brownie with cinnamon ice cream is for dessert.

Drunk and stuffed, the umbrella man escorts us back to the boat.

Our guide meets us at the other side with exciting news. The Ganesh museum is open!

We’re tired and have alcohol headaches, but we trudge up the many stairs, through the exit of the palace. And I’m glad. The two tiny rooms are cramped with reclining elephants, art deco elephants, those reading and eating, some sleeping and washing, others walking and meditating. They are made of camel bone, sand stone, marble, metal and plastic. There are book ends and book marks, pictures and magnets, elephants five feet tall and 2 inches high.

I buy one for me, another as a gift, for good luck and prosperity.

Back at our hotel, we stop at the deer park where an older couple is watching two large bucks clashing horns. I’ve never seen that before… not at a zoo, and certainly not in the wild. Their horns banging together is louder than you might expect and as they push against each other you can hear the horns creaking as if they might break. We start chatting with the couple, Gerry and Rita. They’re from California and invite us to join them for dinner.

And we do. They’ve been married 57 years and have traveled through Africa, Asia, South America, Europe. They’ve been to Alaska. They’ve traveled alone, with all and some of their four children and 6 grandchildren. We trade stories about why we all loved Vietnam. Jerry, who is retired but teaches digital photography twice a week, helps Melissa with a camera card issue, then assists me with my card reader. I trade books with Rita; we both agree that we panic a little bit at the idea of being on a flight without sometimes to read. They are beautiful people.

And they remind me why I travel.

There's a Monkey at the Door

We flew to Udaipur today. The city is best known for its white marble palace in the middle of the lake where scenes from the James Bond movie ‘Octopussy’ were shot.

Unfortunately, our tour company representative -- who has already proved herself not to be the brightest kid in class -- had booked us at a hotel outside of the center of town. We vaguely remember her telling us this-- but not that our driver and car weren’t going to be available. This basically means we are going to be stuck out in the boondocks for the night, with no choice but to eat dinner at the hotel, unless we want to pay money for a taxi into town.

Strangely, our representative, who met us at the airport and drove with us to the hotel, kept insisting that we will enjoy some time at the hotel.

(Aside #1: Every time we arrive at the airport, not only does the driver meet us, but a representative from each city greets us, accompanies us to the hotel, checks us in at the front desk, and then calls us from the lobby in our room to make sure everything is to our liking. It’s comical and unnecessary, but apparently how it’s done. We can’t seem to make them stop.)

(Aside #2: Just some background on the area, Rajhastan, that we’ve been traveling through. Each city was ruled by a separate king, or maharaja. They remained in place all through British rule of India, and were removed when India gained independence. Today, they are just ‘kings’ in name (like the queen of England,) although they do have coronations when a son is named king. Some of their properties are now owned by the government for tourists to visit, while others are still owned by the family and operated as hotels. And many of them still live in parts of the properties.)

But I digress.

Our hotel in Udaipur is a former hunting lodge of the king. So, we drive into this valley ringed by tall mountains, up this long, long, long drive and stop in front of a large main cabin-like building. The porters load up our growing luggage count (due to my inability to stop buying linens) and we follow them out of reception and down a path towards our room.

As we turn a corner, one of the porters points to a field that’s about one story down from the path that we’re walking and says ‘deer.’ And spread out before us are about 50 or so large, brown spotted deer. Baby deer, large bucks with spiraling horns at least four feet high. And we realize that this former hunting lodge is now an animal preserve!

Our room looks exactly as you’d expect a former hunting lodge to look: slate stone walls, rocking chair in the corner, plush beds made with blankets that look perfect for snuggling.

And then the porter opens the drapes to reveal a large picture window. Spread below are the deer like a painting in a museum, the yellow of the grass, their brown coats, the mountains beyond clad in shaded purple light.

As a city girl, deer in New Jersey are exciting enough. But these exotic looking deer are even better, especially when they are part of the hotel staff.

We unpack a bit and decide to explore. We open the door… and large peacock that had been perched on the overhang above the door squawks and flies away. We shut the door and burst out laughing.

Let’s try again.

We step through the doorway, lock the door behind us, take a handful of steps down the path… only to be stopped by a monkey. He’s balanced on a tree branch, not more than 10 feet above us. He’s staring at us. And he’s BIG. At least 3 feet fall. We inch slowly past. And there’s another monkey on the wall ringing the property.

Wait a minute. There are monkeys here? And they are just roaming free. Hmmm. The story of that women that had her face ripped off by a baboon ripples across my mind.

We stroll through the grounds. The deer are still munching on tall yellow grass. We’re surrounded by pink light as the sun sets behind lush craggy mountains. This place is also a stud farm and we peek over a stone wall to watch a skinny newborn foal leaning against it’s mother, while another baby walks unsteady on tall wobbly legs. Their brown hair looks soft even from this distance.

The last of the day’s light is fading as we walk back to our room to rest a bit before dinner. And as we turn the corner where our cabin is located, we are confronted by no less than 10 monkeys. Not confronted I guess. They didn’t SEEM like they wanted to spring. But they were sitting there, staring. Some were big. A few smaller babies. Their velvety gray tails all dangling off branches and rooftops and walls like snakes. We ask one hotel worker if they are dangerous. He doesn't speak a lot of English, just smiles and says ‘monkeys’ and then claps his hands, as if to scare them away. They just blink at him. He says 'no door open' ' no banana.' Gee thanks. As if we were going to leave the door open and invite them in for a snack!?

And as the daylight fades away, sounds we’ve never heard before emerge from the dark. Grunting and chattering and squawking. Leaves rustling as the monkeys jump around. We run laughing into our room, shut the door, and look at them through the window.

It’s always been my dream to do a safari in Africa. One day. In the meantime I’m sharing space with dozens of monkeys. That’s not a bad start.

The Day I Fell in Love With India

Sadly, I am a product of my culture and upbringing.

I like to push myself outside of my comfort zone. I need to experience other ways of life, see the poverty that affects so much of the world, marvel at how other people live and breathe every day.

But after a while I need order and a soft bed and quiet, a hot shower.

That’s why I love Jodhpur. It’s the cleanest city we’ve been to so far in India.

Very few cows = less shit. There are more jobs for people here, so there’s less poverty and less begging = more pleasant shopping in the markets.

Our guide, Ragesh, wears an ascot. He’s going for his PhD in history and he’s soft spoken and serious. But he starts to get our jokes and New York/Jewish sarcasm before too long and laughs along with us a lot. He’s been married for five years and has a 2 year old son. And he travels with his wife; they’ve been to Sri Lanka. Very different from some of our other guides, one of which told us his wife doesn’t even know that men wear wedding rings in other cultures. (Men don’t wear rings in Hindu culture. Women also used to burn themselves with their husbands when they were cremated, although that custom is mostly gone today.)

Jodhpur is also beautiful. It seems we’ve done our route correctly so far, since every city has been more stunning than the last. This city also has the ubiquitous fort and castle combo, each set on cliffs on opposite sides of the city. The maharaja still lives in the palace, which was only completed in 1947-ish. But with it’s large center dome and many soaring towers, it’s stunning up close, as well as from various vantage points around the city.

But it was the fort that really amazed us. It’s the best one we’ve seen so far, clinging to the top of its cliff, with so many arches and carvings, marble and gold leaf, that around every corner a natural frame is already arranged for your photographing pleasure. I must have 100 pictures just of doorways and arches. And the views really do steal your breath. Most of the houses in the old city are painted blue and from so high above they spread out like brightly colored building blocks shinning in the sun.

But it’s the markets here that are a joy. The lack of beggers make it easy to walk around at your leisure and haggle with sellers. We first stopped at a man selling bangles made of glass in every conceivable color. Moss green, tangerine, spirals of plum and butter yellow. We dove right in, declining a cup of chai tea, and tried on dozens and discarded just as many before settling on several. We haggled down the price, he took our money and then gave us six bangles for free anyway. As I tucked my bracelets away, I turned to find Melissa being interviewed by a man in a turban. Apparently he was a local reporter interviewing tourists in the market. We’re keeping an eye out for our debut in the local paper. Perhaps it's all a set-up and staged, but we are charmed by the scene anyway.

Then I bought another bed cover. This one snowy white with chocolate geometric cut out designs. I know. I have an addiction to bedding and sheets.

Next we shop for petticoats to go under the saris we bought in New York to wear at Surb‘s wedding. We followed our guide through one narrow street and then another, side stepping dogs and women clad in orange and turquoise saris, determined to keep walking a straight line as honking scooters zoom around us. The petticoat man operates out of a miniature storefront, so small the entire transaction takes place on the front step. We paid about $1 for it; in Queens they wanted $30 dollars. But he didn’t have a string to cinch it closed. So we’re on the hunt for that still. The markets here remind of those in Asia: lively and chaotic and filled with people and animals and dirt and scooters and unidentifiable smells, but also campfire smoke, which is the scent I’ve come to associate with India.

Back at the hotel, we are on the hunt for a sweet snack. Strangely, there is no store in our hotel. But the man with the swirling mustache who opens the door of arriving cars tells us there is a grocery store open next door. At the empty building being constructed next door? Not possible. Oh yes, he assures us the store is there. Fine. We’ll amuse him. So we walk to the front of this 10 story building still being built, surrounded by bamboo scaffolding, construction men framed inside the empty windows as they complete work inside... and surprise! There IS a supermarket. Well, there’s nothing more interesting than shopping in a foreign food shop, especially when your arrival as two large, tall white women bring the entire store to a silent halt. But once the buzz resumed, we had a blast, snapping up masala tea bags, a strange green fruit that looks like a lime but smells like a grapefruit and pulling packages of cookies with unusual flavors like pineapple from the shelf.

And now we’re spending the rest of our day relaxing for a change. We’re sitting in our hotel’s lovely central courtyard. It’s dry and warm outside but still too cold to take a dip in the freezing pool. Several turbaned attendants are standing just within earshot, you know, in case I need the page in my book turned. (Seriously. They run to you for the slightest thing. It’s both embarrassing and annoying.)

I’ve read that to enjoy India you need to surrender to it.

That’s hard when you are being assaulted by noxious smells and grasping hands and deafening noises. But just when you think you can’t possibly take another moment, you find a quiet, calm spot where you can take a clean, deep breath and feel your body settle.

Stunned and Stunning

Jaisalmer is both beautiful and disgusting.

The smell here is rank, like nothing I’ve ever smelled. Cows and shit and wild pigs and urine and rotting trash and bad body odor. And you’re barely able to walk around it all and keep your shoes clean. Yet, you can turn a corner and the air is clean again.

The mornings are cold and our breath made puffs in the chilly desert air while we ate breakfast in hotel’s rooftop restaurant. We wrapped our hands around hot cups of tea and hunched into our sweatshirts and watched the town come awake while waiting for our eggs. The bent old women unwrapping burlap sacks filled with shirts and sweaters to sell on the street. A young man pushing a cart filled with small cauliflower, dirt covered carrots and tiny shiny eggplant. A group of three dogs barking furiously as they chase two rival dogs away from the territory. And the worst job in the world: the trash collector, a young man who looked like 25 but was probably 16, scooping up cow shit with a metal pan and his hands. We stopped watching that long before our breakfast arrived.

We toured the fort today; it’s the only fort in the world where people are still living. We were glad to have our guide because it was a maze of narrow alleys that we never would have ventured down alone. The entire fort is a warren of intricate carvings, entire facades covered in scrolls and shapes and Jewish stars and swastikas, which were a symbol of peace (and still are) throughout Asia hundreds of years before Hitler stole it to symbolize evil. One building will have a dozen balconies, all chipped away into delicate and symmetrical designs, while down below pigs and cows are eating from a garbage heap.

Our guide, Prakesh, was in tight jeans and a form fitting sweater. I correctly guessed he worked out when later, he told us his dream was to visit World Gym in America and that Arnold Schwarzenegger was his hero. He was helpful and charming and friendly and helped me bargain down the cost of (yet another) bed spread by more than half. He also walked us past where all the other tourists were gathered for their view of the city to his cousin’s hotel, where we had our own spectacular private view from the rooftop. Later, he took us to the private home of a silver jewelry maker who poured out hundreds of earrings and bracelets and necklaces for us to look through. I must say it was the most fun I’ve had shopping for jewelry! But unfortunately, India is turning out to not be as cheap as we had expected, so we only bought one piece of jewelry each. But the jewelry maker’s mother did make us a cup of the best Indian chai tea I‘ve ever tasted, spiced with ginger and masala.

As sunset approached, we dropped off our guide and headed into the dessert with our driver. I was about to see my first real dessert sand dunes, and thoughts of Bedouins and ancient spice routes filled my head. The reality was a bit different. Picture hundred of tourists arriving on camel-back and crowding onto the highest dunes to watch the sun set, gypsy children running from tourist to tourist asking for candy or money to sing and dance, and little boys selling beer and soda and chips like on the beach at Coney Island! I sat on one dune and let my legs hang off the edge, my sunglasses pulled tight against my face and my scarf wrapped around my head and mouth to keep the blowing sand out. Some camels looked bored as they sat on their long, folded legs, slowly blinking with thick eyelashes at least four inches long, while others galloped across the sand, their young turbaned riders bouncing in the seat. It would have been nice to have silence up there for just minute, to just listen to the wind softly blowing and breath an air not polluted with camels (which smell badly and fart a lot!)

Still, we were only 50 miles from the Pakistan border. It was the closest I was probably ever going to get to that part of the world. And with soft sand rolling away from us for miles of golden waves, it was a little scary. But also exciting and thrilling and magical.