October 23, 2009
…since last I posted. Longer than I thought. June, really? Stupid facebook. And this post isn’t going to be much of a post either, I just thought the blog was a better spot for Cristiano’s attempted singing thing, don’t know why (perhaps that is a topic for a future, more thoughtful blog post: to facebook or to blog? where does this tidbit belong? why? hmm)…
Anyhow, this is not the kind of pitch where he is nearly perfect (not even close actually), but still…
June 11, 2009
I’ll try anything once and I do. So my foray into Facebook has had mixed results. It’s upped the ante for my sassy one-liners (did I really need help there?), but honestly, it just might be too much social networking, too late in life. Anyone of the ten people, who might read this blog, knows that it has suffered since the onset of the facebook. And even worse, today I have been “unfriended” for the third time (what the hell?), and by someone I wouldn’t have really given a shite about in the first place one way or the other. (Confirmed during my formative facebook days, who knew it would come to this?) Now I kind of dislike a randomish acquaintance, a person I wouldn’t have given another thought to had it not been for this facebook situation. But who knows why I have lost friend privileges? Maybe he quit the FB himself? Maybe I posted one Marky Mark video too many? Who can say? Quite a swipe that “unfriending” is though. I’ve only done it once myself (had it coming, he knows why).
Even so, there are the positives: reconnecting with long-lost friends, funny shared information, that 16 square feet of saved rain forest, lurking in the shadows of the lives of others, making contact with minimal effort, sharing my backyard gopher and weeding victories, drinking binges that don’t ruin my life, the potential for the Lance Armstrong alert at any time, my public declaration of love for my hair salon, Hawaii, Billy Bragg, the Taj Mahal, and tree bark. Can I really give all that up?
Perhaps now that the learning curve has plateaued, the novelty worn off, I can use the thing responsibly. Strictly for bombarding Jennifer with those creepy lil’ green people and 80’s music videos, cyber-stalking, and approving the efforts of the most adept quippers with a hearty thumbs up. We’ll see. For now, I feel a lot safer here in my one-way conversation where I am the queen, I am a tad selective about content and you are much more grateful for my verbiage of 140 characters or even more. I feel better already.
May 25, 2009
Imagine – John Lennon
memorial day.
April 15, 2009
Polly Prissy Pants
where my mind wandered on hearing about Limbonian tax day tea parties…
March 25, 2009
Russian River Minute
Yesterday from Highland Dell’s deck.
March 2, 2009
That and the sad truth that I am no longer the jet-setter I was just a month ago, so no new exciting tales to tell at the moment. Just working and such–those plane tickets don’t just buy themselves you know.
Anyway, I wanted to post a quick one here to give Jenni and whoever else wants it, the grand opportunity to find out if that RSS feed thingy (red symbol in the corner to your right, at the top of glorious blog) works. So, Jen, hopefully you got an email telling you it’s your lucky day and butterflymilk.com has spoken again at long last.
And one other new, exciting development: I have successfully put in a video for your viewing pleasure. The nerd factor continues to elevate. So here is dramatic footage of my backyard right about now. Please to enjoy!:
February 15, 2009
My fourth el tour de California and it was wet, cold and I picked the wrong vantage point, and I believe my ass was in the road and caused some riders to have to navigate it…feel pretty good about that. I had no choice. Who knew the peleton would be so clumped up that hill? I paid the price with blurry photos and now a determination to take one sweet shot. Will be up at 3 am to take the ultimate shot on the Golden Gate Bridge. Must be off to bed, but until then, here’s what I got so far (this doesn’t mean I’m done talking India mind you):
Lessons of the day: When you have to choose among: champagne, camera, or umbrella–ditch the umbrella. Two: they are faster than you think.
Until tomorrow race fans. Go Levi! Go Lance!
January 29, 2009
Arrived to Mumbai International aka Chhatrapati Shivaji International Aiport, with the now especially unfortunate code (BOM), and took a taxi through the vast surrounding slums of North Mumbai, on our way to the swankier neighborhood of Colaba to the Hotel Suba Palace. Once past the slums, Bombay is the city I can identify with most readily. Bombay has rules in place and enforcement to go along with them which keeps the financial center and tourist spots much nicer than most. The roads are paved, the drivers honk less, people beg less, public urination, spitting (and worse) are greatly diminished. I sense the ghost of European colonialism in the familiar order of things, the older Victorian buildings and the city’s arrangement along the water’s edge. It’s in this area, on the bay’s edge in Colaba, where the recent terrorist attacks took place. Clearly they chose the most western influenced spots to hit. Oberoi Hotel:
I am glad to be here because it feels more familiar, it’s cleaner, and I like the idea of coming to visit despite the vicious actions of stupid, ignorant, angry scum. I felt good about offering solidarity in some small way, just by showing up, and in doing so, also offering up a big FU to terrorists. The Indians refer to this day as 26/11 (in colonized-by-the Euro style, date comes before month) and it is very much their 9/11.
The Hotel Suba Palace where I’m staying is not quite a palace like the Hotel Taj Mahal; it’s quite puny actually, but we are only there for two days and its location is nearly perfect. We are near the waterfront where the boats will launch to go to our next destination, and also near the big fancy hotels and restaurants (where all that awfulness took place), and near the cooler tourist spots, which is fine with me. I am on an adventure down-swing, and I welcome the idea of menus in English and paying for comfort, ease and beer. One of the most popular tourist hangouts in the Colaba area of Bombay is Cafe Leopold. We went there twice. You can still see remnants of 26/11 there:
But life goes on.
My mission for Mumbai (or at least on of them): a tailor-made suit. A suit you ask? And your confusion is of course, entirely justified, but here’s my thinking: While I may not have much need for a business suit at present, working from home and all, I can actually afford to have a skilled tailor make me a suit here, and it will fit. Plus it just seems so cool. It’s something I couldn’t likely afford at home, and when am I going to be in India again? Who knows? I could have a meeting someday, or get an actual job that doesn’t allow pajamas in the work place, so I think it’s a wise and practical decision. I chose the tailor after much online research and because he is not listed in the Lonely Planet (again, if you’re heading to India and want the tailor’s name and address, email me and I’ll share. The suit came out really nice).
Chander, our point man in the tailor shop is very good, as is the ever silent Muslim tailor. I never realized picking out materials and styles for such a thing would be so difficult (I think it would have been good to have a well thought out plan and some photos. That way I could’ve shown Chander what I meant by more Sarah Palin, less Margaret Thatcher—next time), there are so many options. Oh the burdens of the wealthy, I had no idea.
After the first fittings, and being oh-so-glamorous as I am, we went to the beach resort town of Murud for a few days while the clothes were being refined. I am a happy person when I swim. Getting into the Indian Ocean was a necessity.
Bombay to Murud was a long journey by boat, bus, and taxi. The Murud area is more tropical and humid and lush than the other areas of India we visited, and I was happy to see this side of the country. I could tell that we had barely scratched the surface of the India still, and now I could see that places in the South resembled some of my romantic India fantasies more closely. But I could also tell that if this is Southern India in winter, I would have a really hard time in the summer. The weather must be unbearable for a sahib chick like me in the hot season. Even in winter it was 85 degrees and humid. And the locals must not have thought it was the least bit warm, nobody was on the beaches or swimming.
In fact, the whole three warm days the beach was all ours, except for an English couple from our resort. Strange how empty the beach was, but I am not one to question a secluded, clean beach on a hot day in India. Sure, there were warning signs about rip currents and such, but Kahn, the resort manager, informed that those were meant for non-swimmers. I assured him I was a pro, and I didn’t let Tim’s warnings of some razor-backed, toe-snapping, deadly Indian sea floor bastard mystery fish deter me either. It is hot. I see ocean. I get in.
The place we stayed was called the Prakruti Resort, just outside Murud on Kashid Beach. It’s a weekend getaway for Bombay people who can afford it. Perfectly manicured grounds, really good swimming pool, nobody else swimming, nice big room, balcony overlooking pool. I loved the place.
But as is the case with such all buffet, all the time, all-inclusive places, it was hard to escape. And I am not such a fan of the buffet. Too much food, already visited, picked over and rejected by strangers. This is just not my thing. We got a car to take us into the town for dinner at a seafood restaurant. The car costs about ten times as much as the dinner and the resort staff is baffled by our desire to leave the grounds and skip the included buffet. They keep asking us if we want something less spicy. What we do want is seafood, which they don’t seem to serve even though we are right on the beach, and there are fishermen all over the place. I have the feeling that seafood is poor man’s food here and the resort is catering to the yuppity Bombayites, so maybe they just skip it. Who can say? (We say that a lot with our bad Indian accents as well; it is befitting of pretty much every confusing situation.)
Incidentally, they appear to be adding some sort of disco/conference center that seems out of place (I should talk), but still kind of cool:
No matter. I am swimming daily and getting sun, and not being pestered in any way, except by mosquitoes. I think warm weather and humidity bring them out, so if I’m going to get the malaria, it will be here. I don’t care. They can’t get me so long as I swim.
Three days of sun and swimming is very good for a Hawaiian Californian attempting India. I think we did a pretty good job of alternating cities with peaceful, chill places overall. It always seemed like the serenity came just in time. Locals seem to have a way of keeping mellow regardless.
These lovely ladies spent the entire day scrubbing the bricks in front of that new disco-y building at the Prakruti Resort. I don’t know if it’s the huge population in need of work that prevents them from seeking better tools, but I’d be bitching for a power washer at this point.
Next time, from Murud back to Bombay, then home, via Dubai it turns out (have told Jet Airways to suck achar, and will come home on Emirates instead–I may have already told you about that since I’m skipping around some).
Further ramblings;
-So what do you think? Decent or expert?:
-I forgot the tacks for my friggin’ mosquito net. I have been eaten alive in the south. Remind me to take the malaria pills for two weeks after I get back.
-People carry stuff on their heads a lot. I think the weight pressing down on them eventually makes them bow-legged.
-Chickoo juice is good.
-That clothes-pinned nose, high-pitched singing style that exemplifies every female Indian singer is fine in small doses, but now it’s starting to get to me. They could use an alto, perhaps some Hindigo girls?
-It’s not a vacation– it’s a trip, a journey, an opportunity, a gift, and many lessons. Lesson number one: lucky me, lucky you.
Love & Phir milenge…
January 27, 2009
Hello people. It seems I am back to post-date posting rather than current updates as internet was not to be had so much for the last parts of the trip. But since it is now yesterday for me, I think that’s okay. As I sit on my big blue pilates ball that serves as my desk chair here in Sebastopol, I’ll do my best to recap. I did write some though while still tripping as it were…in our last episode I left you in Jaipur, shopping, eating, and riding in many tuk-tuks (auto-rickshaws). After Jaipur, we headed to Ranthambore Park. It looks like I wrote not at all while in Ranthambore, which makes sense because it is there that we got back to nature at last. Seeing trees and lots of space between people and buildings was a great relief after the crush of cities and tourist sites we experienced up until then.
I’ll try to draw you a picture of Ranthambore (or better yet, post some). We took a train there from Jaipur to Sawai Madhopur. Many handwashing stations, yet alarmingly few patrons:
Ranthambore is a nature preserve for the dwindling Bengal tiger population of Rajasthan. The Khem Villas is in the town of, Sawai Madhopur right next to the park. We spent four nights there. On arriving to the train station in Sawai Madhopur, there was a driver from Khem Villas there to meet us–very nice guy named Baboo (as in “my sweet baboo” for anyone else who had that same “Peanuts” moment). It is very good to have a driver from your next hotel meeting you wherever you land by train or plane in India, this way you need not hassle the taxi thing and translate your destination with difficulty. Things we may not usually afford here in the US, we do in India lots of times. I have pretty much stopped ever lifting my big, red suitcase, because there is always a suitcase wallah grabbing your luggage from you the second you arrive anyway:
Arriving at Khem Villas is pretty much perfect. One guy uses a pair of tongs to give you a hot towel to wash the road dust from your hands and face, another applies the bindi to new guests’ foreheads, (signifying in this case that you are invited to treat the home you are entering as your own. I hope they don’t mind my CD’s and shoes all over the place then.), and another offers us “sweet lime” to drink–I’ve had lots of variations of lime juice during the course of the trip—sweet lime, salty lime, lime with soda…we should have that here more often. I think I will. The luggage mysteriously disappears (we find it later in the room), we are walked briefly around the grounds and check out the wildlife and resident crocodile (free to leave and roam whenever he likes). I am feeling quite the colonial British Raj imperialist at this point, but somehow I manage to adjust.
The view from the breakfast table:
But the main reason tourists visit Ranthambore is to catch a glimpse of the elusive tiger in the wild. We heard that some people had been out on five jeep safaris and never saw one. We got lucky the first day out:
My wildlife photography needs some work, but still, it’s pretty damn exciting seeing tigers (plural) and having them see you back, no zoo, no barriers, and no getting out of the jeep (I really wanted to though). By the way, if anyone knows how to correct blurry pictures (Patti?), please do tell. I am not averse to that kind of photographic cheatery in this case. How many tigers am I ever gonna get?
Anyhow, not being a big fan of 4-wheeling as a general rule, and having scored the tiger first time out, I was one-and-done with the jeep safari. Just as well, because the next day I was sick as a (slum)dog with some fever and chills ailment which I rename every time I speak of it—train cootie, dengue fever, tigerpause, malaria, Rhajastank, roomis-igloomis, Japanese encephalitis, hindi mange–feel free to invent your own. It was the only time I was sick the whole trip (and not a bit of Delhi belly), and I gotta say, if you’re going to be sick for a day in India, make it at the Khem Villas in Sawai Madhopur. Hot water bottles, fresh juice, toast, tea and sympathy, all delivered to the bedside, and then complete privacy and silence in a beautiful white room with a view out of a bay window to the mountains.
As I lay dying, Tim went out on safari two more times (think pith helmets and Commander McBragg—quite right). No more tiger sightings (which I was until now, secretly happy about), but he had a good second day just the same. I don’t usually weasel anyone’s shots, but his new goat herder friends were too lovely to pass up:
At night the Khem Villas serves its guests cocktails at an outdoor bar fireside and then we ‘retire to the dining room’ which is heated by several small coal burning pots spread around the room and about ten waiters bring you dish after dish which you may accept or reject for the duration of your candlelight meal—it’s amazing and almost embarrassing. But again, I was able to adjust and endure the excesses just fine.
There was lots to do, see and love about Ranthambore:
The Khem Villas resort is run by a woman named Usha and I believe her husband is the local doctor who helps runs free health clinics and encourages local sustainability through local cooperatives and agriculture. By supporting such local industry, the locals have ways to survive that don’t involve poaching. So y0u see, it was crucial that I shop. ; ) It was by far the most progressive community we visited.
Nice to be able to see the people making the stuff we bought. No sweatshops, no misery, fair prices, no kids working…
Ranthambore and Sawai Madhopur had quite the tranquil vibe, and it came at just the right time for me.
My thoughts aren’t running that deep at the moment, the day after the long trip home but here are a couple of shallow ones:
- I can only go so long without seeing trees and ocean, then I get mad.
- It is good for traveling companions to separate from time to time.
- For Indian light switches, down=on, up=off, and there are always a few extra switches that do nothing at all.
- When on a jeep safari, wear a sports bra.
- Best not to admit it when your blow dryer causes a power outage.
- Go ahead, order the Bombay and tonic.
- Sure, I enjoy the bird. But I am not the bird-watching kind, let alone one who would keep a checklist of birds spotted.
Upcoming stops: a last day in Delhi, two in Mumbai/Bombay, then south to Murud, beach weekend getaway of the Bombay somewhat elite…
Phir milenge (we’ll meet again)…
January 24, 2009
…or before Emirates flight 501. Jet Airways continued sucking, so I told them and got a new flight with new airline, leaving at 4:30 am the 26th. Layover in Dubai–maybe will buy some diamonds, a high-rise penthouse apartment built on ocean fill, become a sheik’s 52nd wife or hang out with Britney Spears…
Because of unfortunate internet situation the last couple of places even Mumbai/Bombay, which is a pretty modern-ish city, not so much communication happening, but I’l have lots to say (surprised?) when we back home.
I’m glad to have come here. I’m ready to be home. I miss you all. Goodbye India. Namaste, phir milen-gay, shukriya. (I honor the divinity in you, I hope to see you later, thank you.)
sleepy parting thoughts:
- I saw a a tiger in Ranthambore (more on that later to be accompanied by sad blurry photo taken while seeing tiger in wild.)
- “English wine shops” in India do not sell wine, only hard liquor. Beer shops sell only beer. A shop is usually a stand.
- I like other people carrying my stuff around for me. Yet I still don’t think that makes me the bourgousie (spell check not an option right now, sorry), super-flashy Indian up and comer that Mumbai has so many of –poverty and Prada side by side.
- Today’s missions=last barfi purchase, as well cheap duffle bag to stick in new tailored oufit (I now own articles of clothing that fit me, long sleeves and all). Take photos of actual slumdogs (not millionaires) sleeping under Slumdog Millionaire movie posters all over the place. Jai ho. (May you win.)
- Shoulda bought more masala tea! Chai ho?
- Must take off now for food in Irish Pub (?) restaurant in hotel. (Update-there is also and “Irish pub” in the Dubai airport. The last smoky pub on earth, filled with lovely, smoking, homeward bound infidels.)
Love to you all…see you soon…
