I get my own sink, a low marble stone basin, filled with the hot water I’d been craving all week (maybe I’m becoming a pansy but cold showers every morning was getting to me). I dunk myself with a couple cups of water and then I’m motioned over to lie flat on the stone floor (very comfortable). She begins to scrub me down like I’ve never been scrubbed before. Piles of skin come off – I feel dirty although I know I’m not – and she exclaims something in Arabic that must have been like

“Girlfriend – what is this mess? Get yo’self to a hammam more often, look at your skin!” after which she gives me a toothy smile.

I’m pretty good with this kind of thing, but I’m still a little shocked by the intimacy. Two women in front of me are doing the same thing to each other, and I hear them asking something loudly to the woman serving me. If only I knew what they were saying at the time.

Next, I get my feet scrubbed, and an oily massage, and some (locally made) olive based (beyond organic) soap to wash everything off. My skin is soft like its never been before, and I smell delicious. I’m pretty relaxed up to this point. I take a towel and head into their chill out lounge (which is actually the welcome-and-exit room). I casually ask how old the place is, because it looks exactly the same as a hammam I visited in Lebanon the week before in the Betadine Palace. The answer? 850 years old. My jaw drops. This bathhouse is older than colonial America.

I sit down, start to dry, jaw still open, and ask for Zurahat tea, which is a type of wildflower. It’s yummy. Things are perfect. I’m in heaven.

And then a fight breaks out.

I had noticed in the back of my mind that the air of the place seemed a bit strange… the ladies were all talking loudly to each other, but I really can’t understand mostly anything except the occasional word so I wasn’t paying any attention. Plus my guard wasn’t up – I had just had it beat out of me. But at some point I clued in when the manager of the hammam grabbed the shoes of a couple of girls and threw them on the wet floor. This provoked an immediate reaction from one of the said girls, who were still naked, to throw herself at the manager and try to hit her. The whole thing escalated in seconds and both (almost naked) women were being restrained by other women and were yelling at the top of their lungs.

Myself mostly undressed I quickly throw my clothes on, retrieve my shoes and high-tail it across the room as the fight was migrating my way within seconds. Big breasts were swinging, high voices were shrieking, and I really honestly thought the naked girl was going to punch the manager. The space was small, I didn’t want any trouble in case police got involved, so I beat it. Plus, I really didn’t know what was going on.

Later I learned that the girls were Moroccan, and to the insistence of the manager and everyone translating the story to me, they were prostitutes. They got upset when they saw me getting better treatment and argued with the manager, whom I imagine, must have insulted them hence the intense reactions from both sides. I really don’t know what the story is in the end, nor which side to take as its unclear whether they were actually badly treated or not, wether they had an attitude problem or not, or wether the manager was badly stereotyping them or not. Who knows.

In any case, this started off my tour of Syria with a bang. More stories to come in a flash.

For now, here’s a short anecdote, which happened a few days ago on my last day in Nepal:

“Went to a HiLaRious “yoga session” this morning, which was also at the same time quite magical. We set out walking from Manuka’s home at 5am in the dark to the temple, which was on top of a big hill/mountain as many pagodas/buddhist/Tibetan temples are wont to do. There are hundreds of steps to climb get to the top, out of breath, to pay our respects, and get a view of Kathmandu city pre-dawn – twinkling lights on a backdrop of mountains. Beautiful. The temple itself (Buddhist-Tibetan) is also quite nice and old, complete with prayer wheels and bells. We climb back down, hang out in a square at the bottom of the hill, and wait for the yoga class to start. Slowly a bunch of “mats” are put on the ground (too thin to be called a mat as my spine tells me during a curl-in-a-ball-exercise and my backbones dig in to the cement), a speaker and microphone system are set up, and a woman begins the program. First, the Nepalese National Anthem (so pretty!), but everyone stands stock still, staring straight ahead until the end (weird – they don’t sing). Then, we sit, and our caller/instructor begins, via microphone in Nepalese (so I don’t understand anything), to instruct us. We do a few stretches, and then she curls up with her hands in a prayer position. Everyone does the same, and then I hear the whole group burst out in this BIG, forced, loud laughter…and burst their bodies open in imitation, arms splayed open. Like, it was on Purpose. It was part of the routine. Then everyone stops, curls up again, then bursts out in laughter again… and its like this perfectly imitated laughter that might come ricaning out of an old man in a movie – a loud perfect belly laugh. It was so funny that I couldn’t stop ACTUALLY laughing (which no one was doing) at them and unable to actually do the exercise. But the spirit is awesome. Laughing is one of the best healing activities on this planet in any case so it makes perfect sense to include it in yoga.  After about another 45 minutes of weird breathing exercises that I didn’t jive with, stretches I longed for more, we got up and did a western-style cardio routine out of nowhere, jumping jacks and all. Then, behind the instructor, two monkeys come out and scurry around eating something….I get poked by my hosts’ dad into the jumping jacks again but the whole situation strikes me as so funny and weird and magical all at once all over again. Jumping jacks, Nepal, base of a beautiful old temple, outside in nature, weird “western” music, old people doing western cardio routines, monkeys. And no one pays attention to the monkeys except me, of course. Then the music turns off and we’re asked to lie down and… relax. This completes my experience and I fall in love with a little bit of Nepal forever. I look up above me and layers of rich green leaves frame the sky, which was still a hue of gold from dawn. I let my head fall to my left, and see a tiny ant crawling about. My heart lifts in a moment of pure bliss.

Today I wore a skirt for the first time in a month, in weather that hovers around 90F/32C during the day.

But first things first: I’m in Doha, Qatar, teaching documentary filmmaking at Carnegie Mellon University to a class of computer engineers and software designers, as well as building course materials. Qatar is a Gulf country in the Middle East that is rich in natural gas and oil, and awash in money. Lots, of money.

The skirt – it stopped short at about my knees, business-tailored, grey, and generally dull. But I felt scandalous: wind flapping against my legs as I walked through the long building to my office. Every breath of air against my skin felt strange, like the first time you dare to come out of the house in just a Tshirt after a long winter. You’re cold, but you’re also sick of your coat, so you shed the layers anyway.

Sitting at a table on the way are three women students chatting over coffee. Every time they take a sip, they lift the veil covering everything except their eyes to allow for the cup to reach their lips. I catch a glance of their faces each time they do this, though their eyes arrest me from looking too long. They are wearing an Abaya, which is a long black robe covering them shoulders-down. On top of that is a Hijab, covering their hair and necks. Finally is the Niqab, which leaves only the eyes for the world to see. Eyes that are many times beautifully painted, dramatic and sensual.

(Fact: Consumption of cosmetics is said to be strongest in the Gulf States, where average per capita expenditure is currently estimated to be $334 per person annually- one the highest rates in the world)

There are also women covered head to toe, including feet and hands. They wear elbow-length black gloves and closed shoes. You can see why wearing a knee-length grey business skirt might make me feel a bit of a thrill. Qatari women, however, generally keep their hands and face free, their eyes dramatic, and they Love. Their. Shoes.

Designer, diamond-encrusted, silk-ribbon-laced, velvet crimson 5 inch heels peek out of their robes. It’s blinding. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a normal person wear heels like that back home, only runway model shows on TV. In any case, it’s a daily part of life here. They wear this to school, to work, to shop, to hair cuts, to banks, even to McDonalds and KFC (Yes! American fast food chains have bombarded the planet and Qatar is not an exception!)(Qatar’s rate of diabetes is soaring, and apparently all due to the consumption of fast foods).

I could wear a skirt everyday if I wanted to, by the way, but I choose to adhere to the diffuse guidelines of modesty; it’s not my culture and I wish to respect that.
Qatar is more or less open, although it is discouraged to wear revealing clothing, and things like miniskirts, short shorts, transparent tops, and skin-tight bodysuits will honestly get you in trouble. By trouble, I mean someone will just ask you to cover up… no stones or insults here. As for me, I don’t have to wear any Abaya, Hijab, or Burka/Niqab, and I don’t feel the pressure to at all. In fact, I’ve been wanting to buy an Abaya and wear it for fun. I like pretending to blend in, especially if I’m not forced or pressured to.

Qatar is a muslim country so there isn’t much Christmas cheer here (only at the hotels), and additionally, it’s warm and dry. Enjoy the snow for those back home!!!

Merry Christmas!

Love
Isabelle

Flipper is up one point, then gets a foul. Super Ghetto takes the lead. Super Ghetto then gets a foul, but Flipper misses both freethrow shots. It’s an exciting game. Super Ghetto players have snazzy new black jerseys, names featured prominently on the back (I root for #12, Tajado). Their Nike sneakers pace the floor well. They’ve got groove. It’s all very super ghetto.

Late the next night I’m out at a bar to sample the nightlife, though I’m already very tired from a long day of shooting. I notice the entire basketball team is there, judged by their communal height alone (the few in this world whom are taller than me do not escape my notice). I can’t help but also notice that their super ghettoness is expressed in a very American way – many have baggy pants, designer hats, big diamond earrings, marijuana leaf blingorama chains resting heavy on their chests.

American pop “culture” can seem to reach deeply into the world’s veins at times. I have a distinct memory when I was in Vietnam of eating a farewell dinner from my host family; we’re all sitting cross-legged on the floor, small bowls in hand with chopsticks in the other. Bugs are buzzing around the only lightbulb. At the end of the dinner, they turn on their small TV and flip through the channels until they get MTV. Beyoncé, in all her bootylicious glory, seductively dances on all fours; I have an acute taste of absurdity when all I can hear outside are crickets throbbing in chaotic unison, rural farmland stretching for miles in sweet silence. America’s image abroad, in fact, is undeniably contradictory. A superpower whose every move is watched because of its ability to affect every inch of the planet, it is in turns both loved and loathed.

In any case, Puerto Cabezas isn’t so isolated as where I was in Vietnam, and definitely has its own culture, distinct from the world, from America, and even from the rest of Nicaragua. It’s close to the Honduran border, and still harbors much of its native population of Miskito Indians that were here before the Spaniards came. These days, they speak Miskito first, Spanish second, and English third though it wasn’t always that way. Often, our interviews with the locals here could have been, or were held, in Miskito. The language is rhythmic, necessarily foreign to my Indo-European ears. Most of the locals here talk about the Pacific coast with some amount of disdain, as the “Pacific” is synonymous with wealth, and at times, government oppression. The Atlantic/Caribbean coast in contrast has its own authentic Miskito-Creole groove that has been etched by a history very different from the Spaniard-west. For example, the musical choices blared loudly from car, rooftop, or bar, range from Reggaeton, Bachata, to Soca, Dancehall, and Reggae.

Something nags me though – height. Everyone, I notice, is taller here in Nicaragua. I stand still on a busy street testing my hypothesis, and on average people aren’t reaching my chest, but my nose. I don’t get nearly as many comments for being “so tall” and I don’t feel like a towering monster when walking around in crowded areas like the market. As it is purely anecdotal evidence, I put it aside.

I walk into the local cornerstore to buy a fresco de pithaya, or dragonfruit juice to go.
My to-go pithaya juice arrives in a small plastic bag artfully tied to a straw. To-go takes on a new definition as my plastic-bag-fuchsia-colored juice leaks through my hands onto my shirt. In any case, it’s a slow day and the girl who served me is sitting outside reading a thick book. After getting over the shock of seeing her read a book – any book – I then think to ask what she’s reading. I’m fully expecting a dime store (peso store?) romance novel but instead she tells me, “Sense and Sensibility, by Jane Austen.”

“En serio?” Seriously? I ask.

I haven’t even read that book.

“So what do you think of Jane Austen?” I then ask.

“Oh, she writes great romance novels” she says.

Right. And why are you working in this joint serving 40-cent juices to the odd customer if you can read and enjoy Jane Austen, I want to ask?

Okay, I decide, my anecdotal evidence is in need of some fact checking – why are these people taller, why do they read literature, and yet still live in such poor conditions?

A massive history lesson ensues, rudely uncovering my ignorance of a country I would have long been interested in coming to visit had I ever caught a whiff of its recent past: Nicaragua had a revolution in 1979. A year later, after the infamous longtime CIA-sponsored Somoza dictatorship was successfully torn down by the Sandanista Front, one of the most remarkable improvements in literacy occurred in recent times. Within five months they reduced the overall illiteracy rate from 50% to 13%. As a result, in September 1980, UNESCO awarded Nicaragua with an award for their successful literacy campaign.

My small observations begin to fit into place. Better redistribution of wealth has lead to increased nutrition, better access to medical care, as well as better vaccination techniques and disease control. A very simple trend occurs: people, across social classes, begin to grow taller. It’s a documented fact that a redistribution of income leads to increased height among a population. 20 years later, the effects are palpable. I mean, at least I see the men eye to eye here.

Abrazos
-Isabelle

He’s is 54 years old, but passes for 30. Lean, fit, muscular, a body sculpted from a lifetime of physical work, his gaze was commanding as it was sultry, his face smooth and young. His wife and him were easygoing, a marriage of 30+ years, and for a moment I was nostalgic for their ideal relationship. Then I found out he had multiple girlfriends in town.

His son, Milton, is a buzo – a diver. A lobster diver, to be more specific. His job description includes going out to sea for some 10-14 days, diving around 20 times a day to catch spiny lobsters one at a time, with a small hook fused at the end of a metal rod. They get paid per pound of lobster caught. The price per pound of lobster 5 years ago was around 16 US dollars/pound, making it the most lucrative job in town for the average laborer (who earned $4.50/lb). Today, because of the global recession, the price has dropped to $8.50/lb, and the buzos are earning only $1.90/lb.

These buzos, besides radically overfishing the caribbean spiny lobster, are also risking their lives on multiple counts. The most grave condition is called the Bends, which results when you dive too often and you rise too quickly – nitrogen bubbles form in your blood and essentially renders you paralyzed from one minute to the next,
“I got back into the boat and sat down… and then I knew it had happened. I couldn’t feel my legs anymore” says Oscar, one of the many paralyzed buzos in town.

Oscar sits on the floor of his house on stilts. Before the interview begins he reaches for an empty plastic bottle and puts it underneath his blanket. I hear a strange gurgling sound in my earphones, and I realize he’s peeing into the bottle, which I could hear particularly loudly because he’d already been mic’d with the lavalier. Plaintive, he says simply that he has received no aid from basically anywhere – not the boat owner he was working for, nor the state, nor any other association. I watch carefully one of the other boys in the room, Fernando, who is training to become a buzo himself, and how he reacts to Oscar’s story.

“It’s the ultimate machismo.” Brad, colleague of mine here, explains to me, “They go out to sea for weeks. Their wives and girlfriends come to see them off at the dock before each trip. They might never come back. They might die.” But still they go out and dive, with the possibility of coming back, some would argue, worse than dead: paralyzed. Brad sent me an email about 2 months ago, asking me if I might be available the month of August to help shoot a documentary he was making on lobster divers, and the lobster diving industry in Puerto Cabezas, Nicaragua.

I flew down mid-August to help production for two weeks on the documentary called Mi Aldea, Mi Langosta (My Village, My Lobster), and that’s how I found myself learning about buzos, langostas, Puerto Cabezas, and the Nicaraguan Revolution of 1979.

Abrazos
Isabelle

Currently, I am in the midst of working on and wrapping up:
1. Universal Digital Library documentary for Carnegie Mellon University
2. Nobel Science Laureate Conclave for IIIT-A University in Allahabad, India
3. Dominican Republic documentary “100 Fires: Living in a Landfill”

Because the above mentioned projects are all-consuming, I hired an editor named Seth Wood to finish two shorts for me that I’ve been meaning to get on the table for a while. I believe many of you will enjoy one or both of these:

1. Water Warriors, featuring spoken word artist Will Copeland.
Will delivers a kick-ass poem he wrote about the privatization of water in our communities.
http://www.izaca.com/film_warriors.htm

2. Shakespeare’s Sonnet 2, featuring four fantastic performers
who offer a modern dance rendition of one of Shakespeare’s sonnets.
http://www.izaca.com/film_shakespeare.htm

***AND LAST BUT NOT LEAST***
A new trailer on the new film website www.100FiresFilm.com

That’s it. Let me know how y’all like everything, and how you’re doing if you have time to update me.
Abrazos
Isabelle

Through a friend of a friend of a friend, I got lucky and stayed some blocks behind the US Capitol building the night before the presidential inauguration. The roads had already been closed down, there were groups of young army boys on the street corners, sirens were going off at strange intervals, and the city was definitely bursting with an undercurrent of electrical energy. For those of you who were there, you know the feeling I am talking about. The anticipation was tremendous.

The Day-Of Jan 20, 2009

A normal 30 minute walk to the mall the morning-of took close to three hours. Throngs of people were swarming down closed city streets. We even had to walk down into the 395 highway tunnel to be able to correctly make the detour, treading where no non-suicidal man had dared to tread for a decade. Vendors covered in pins and buttons were selling their wares at every corner, as well as Obama themed gloves, scarves, t-shirts, sweatshirts, etc. I kept thinking, forget this souvenir stuff, I’m about to see the real guy and make a real souvenir.

My unticketed hands hiked to the back of the mall, in front of the Washington Monument. A jumbotron TV allowed us to see the proceedings, making my experience a mix of both worlds. I was there, lost in the crowd, standing on the mall, yet getting the up close and personal camerawork of the events on TV.

I was startled by the diversity of the crowd: young, old, man, woman, and every race and ethnicity I could guess and more. There were  no protestors, anywhere, only people climbing in trees, on top of snack stands, on top of port-a-potty’s. So this is what 2 million people feels like, I thought.

The jumbotron TV fed us images -  Cheney rolls by, Bush gets unanimously booed, and the Obamas are cheered one by one as they come out into the stands. Barack finally takes the stage and delivers as 17 minute speech chock full of eloquence, in which the  tone is serious, no-nonsense, somber and yet committed to change.

Yes.

This is our president. My president.

BARACK OBAMA.

Enjoy the pictures. And for those of you out there who are not pro-Obama, I respect that too, and let’s stay friends. ?

I’m in Varanasi, one of the oldest towns in India.
Known for:
a holy upriver Ganges spot;
a large Buddhist temple;
a sculpture featured on India’s currency that is 4000-years-old (three lions back to back staring out defiantly).
(Interesting fact: These lions are polished limestone. No one has figured out yet the process to polish limestone apparently, and they have no idea how they did this 4000 years ago. Yet another morsel of knowledge lost to ourselves – not the first or the last time this has happened.)

One hour later I’m in a boat on the Ganges river, looking at a ceremony performed in honor of Diwali, Festival of the Lights. Diwali is one of the very few national holidays in which literally ALL of India participates in, no matter your background, language, religion, caste. Strings of yellow marigolds hang everywhere and lights stream down building facades. I’m sure India gets brighter from outerspace these few days. For a couple rupees a little boy puts a chunk of banana leaf in my hand with some flowers and lights the candle in the center. Lowering the leaf to the water I let the flame float away into the night, unsure of what wish or prayer I bestowed on it. The further away it gets the more it blends with the stars above, a small kiss to the galaxy.

Moving away from the ceremony, my group is taken downriver to see the pyres, or different cremation sites that take place just off of the Ganges. A bright fire burns (is that where they cremate the bodies?) and I see a wooden bed holding a beautifully adorned body. A small thought drifts by – did they ever wear such nice clothes in their life? And another thought – how many bodies does this river hold in ashes?

The group tour comes to an end with the International Conference on Universal Digital Libraries (ICUDL) which consists of a fruitful set of discussions and panels on the nature of digital libraries, after which I take off for Qatar to start a documentary on the Heritage Library, a subset of the Universal Digital Library which is a project headed by Carnegie Mellon University.

The documentary centers on this rare-books library in Doha, Qatar, to provide an example of the nature of digitizing books, maps, and libraries. Putting an entire library online for users to access 24/7 anywhere in the world is in itself a revolution, unlocking geographical access to the books, promoting universal access to knowledge (the digitized books will be available for free), and providing archival value (think destructive daylight, oily fingers, flipping pages, and the Alexandria fire). There is more, but I’ll spare you the details.

In some ways I view the Universal Digital Library as simply an amazing project, grandly democratic in its vision: to disseminate knowledge as widely as possible through a platform most of the world has some kind of access to – a computer and the internet. To digitize books and make them accessible for free is simply making knowledge available on a scale we never dreamed of before. Think of writing a thesis, article, or conducting any research for any subject: how long does it take you now to research a topic? You first start with a run-through of what’s available online. Then, you grudgingly have to admit it’s not great quality, and drag yourself to the library. You check out too many books and, moreover, you’ll probably miss the sections which would have helped you the most because the books or papers are not electronically indexed. You get my point. The Universal Digital Library is a revolution

I watch a rickshaw driver pedal by, thinking, if this guy could spare a couple rupees for public access to a computer with internet, he could have access to these books. That is, if he can read. Which is another issue altogether. Being poor, that driver uses his body to earn a living, not his intellect. And always this dichotomy strikes me – making me think of the intellectual elite I am so familiar with back home, some of whom constantly pine about not finding the time to exercise. Including me.

After seeing the shape these rickshaw drivers are in…

Namasté
Isabelle

So, after the temples of Khajuraho, I have toured another two Indian cities, attended a conference, gone to do a documentary in Qatar, returned home, and now, find myself in India again, doing another documentary. Where am I right now? Somewhere over some ocean. Don’t worry about it. It seems proper that I just pick up where I left off, in nonlinear fashion. Afterall I am a filmmaker, telling stories with nonlinear editing is my forté.

____________________________________________________________________ 

 Hustling through a tall curved archway, everyone pushes through, bobbing heads becoming silhouettes against the emerging daylight. And then, what I’ve only heard about, seen in postcards, read in a textbook materializes into something real. A brilliant white flesh shines, almost too bright for the eyes.

 It is the Taj Mahal.

 As a good Indian friend of mine says, if you think something is beautiful, better stare at it from afar and never come too close. Otherwise, the beauty is lost. I don’t fully agree with this statement – I find beauty in the details of life – but the Taj is most impressive when taken as a whole. The white structure is so magnificent it is hard not to want to get close, to touch, to see, to smell it. It is said to have been built with the hardest, nonporous marble in the world (found only in India). A local marble “factory showroom” my tour group was shepherded into (showing off  dark, skinny men with cracked skin bent over etching by hand) claimed a plate of marble could be thrown from the top of a building and it would barely chip. The same plate could have a cold glass of water on it for hours and never show a ring. The same plate also cost minimum $1500, with full dining tables going for $800,000. Hmm.

 Anyway, coming back to the Taj, I never knew that one of the 7 wonders of the world is actually a mausoleum, dedicated to the death of a person. In fact, dedicated to the death of one person alone. Located in a town called Agra, the surrounding economy centers on selling anything Taj-esque: Taj-keychains, Taj-postcards, Taj-plasticstatues, Taj-buddahs, Taj-goddesses, Taj-this, Taj-that. Tourists are walking targets, as with so many of these wonderous wonders, the authenticity is somewhat ruined by the kitsch trinkets, hawking, and general feeling of being a sheep herded through the gates to snap a picture, take a look, and make room for the next groups thankyouverymuch! (And take a keychain with you.100 rupees. Okay, 50 rupees. Wait don’t go! 15 rupees!)

 My “walk-through” was informative however. I approach the building with stealth, avoiding all the hawkers trying to get a rupee out of me by telling me where to stand for the best picture. I know where to stand for the best picture, and as soon as they point to a spot, my pride and professionalism tell me I automatically can’t take a picture there. Of course they are actually pointing to a few good spots, but I don’t concede. I can’t believe there are actually people waiting around here telling tourists where exactly to take pictures. This embodies for me the ultimate deterioration of a tourist experience. I can’t even have the simulated pleasure of snapping my very own photo from my very own angle.

 Breathe. Now getting closer, I see the Taj isn’t as white as I thought when I first saw the blinding sunlight reflecting off of it. Shoes must be taken off so I pad barefoot, getting finally inside. The inner chamber is dark, I can barely see. The grave lies enclosed in a intricately carved marble enclosure. My stuffy nose prevents me from smelling what I hear is something putrid. I’m content to be sick for a moment, blind and senseless in the obscurity. 2 senses down, 3 more to go… Maybe mausoleums commemorate the feeling of death as well as the actual death itself.

 After this, during the span of about 30 minutes, I get stopped a dozen times by women and men alike to pose with me, half of them thrusting their children into my arms for a picture. I’m becoming more of an attraction than the Taj Mahal. Come see Isabelle Carbonell, as-yet-unproclaimed 8^th wonder of the world!!! Just kidding.

 Maybe I’m over-analyzing but it seems wrong that this huge, breathtakingly beautiful monument pronounced a wonder for the world to behold is about only one person. Not about society, a cause, a group, a movement, or history. It is one rich man’s folly for his late wife. A folly he nearly repeated in black, mirrored across a river that runs behind the current Taj. These second foundations still lay, stopped in their tracks by his son who decided his father had squandered enough money on one Taj Mahal, threw him in prison, and took the throne. Oh those rich folk.

 There is definitely something bittersweet about the Taj Mahal. Pure white, bright, brilliant, seeming innocence, hope, a prayer. An unprecedented token of post-mortem love (his idea to build a second black Taj Mahal surely shows his narcissism, but nevertheless). As with all grand things you finally visit, it can never live up to your expectations (I’m positive expectations are the death of many things, a fatal human flaw) (why, the most precious moments in life occur from spontaneity and not planning, when expectations were naught – and when one travels, the best moments are always, bar none, moments you have not planned).

 Only the small wonders of the world, on no one’s list but your own, are the ones you will truly cherish. One of the most delicious cups of tea I’ve ever had in my life was at a small hole-in-the-wall family-saree-shop this morning. And if I try to repeat this experience, it will be a cup of expectations, not tea. And in that I try to find peace that moments come and go, and there is no way to create The Moment. The best way to create those moments we all crave when on a break from daily routine is to be open to traveling away from the beaten path.

 Much Love And Only A Small Amount of Cynicism

Namasté

Isabelle

1. Did I like India?

2. What was my favorite part of India? and

3. What did I think of India and its people?

I said, “yes, I liked India.” and that “I didn’t have any favorite parts of India yet, seeing as how I hadn’t been many places.” This answer did not translate well, so I just answered the city where I found myself – “Allahabad.” And to the last question, I answered that “I thought Indians were welcoming, warm and open.”

The journalist looked at me blankly.

He didn’t understand my english, so I tried to explain myself in other ways – “You know, open, warm, generous, giving, honest…” and apparently the only word that rang a bell was “honest” so now the headline reads something like…

“UNIVERAL DIGITAL LIBRARY IS A VEHICLE TO DISSEMINATE THE ANCIENT TRADITIONAL KNOWLEDGE OF INDIA;
ISABELLE ADMIRES INDIAN’S HONESTY”

Who knew my opinion on mattered so much? Enjoy the pictures…

Shooting at the conference…

The entire conference team, more or less. As you can see, I am one of the tallest. As usual.

Bindi and all, drinking Indian tea, being pictured entirely too much

The journalist in question who got my answer wrong -