Journeys

The First Ten Days

2022-03-30T12:03:00.001-04:00

Today, on the eleventh day of our one-year RV adventure, March 20^th, I found myself fantasizing about being at the St. George’s Hotel in Paris, surrounded by luxury and space, sitting outside at a café and eating the most buttery, flaky croissants with a cup of coffee, listening to Francoise Hardy. Of course, I’m conveniently omitting from the fantasy the sounds and nuisances of the city: car horns and alarms, motorcycles, ambulances, dogs barking, poop on the sidewalk, hawkers, and the general hustle and bustle of city life. I don’t miss that. Not one bit.

What I do miss is convenience. Flicking a switch, pressing a button or lifting a lever, and knowing with absolute certainty (or at least 99% of the time) that a particular result will happen – a light will turn on or off, hot water will flow, the air conditioner or the heater will work as it should, whatever is in the toilet will go down and not come back up. In theory, a modern RV is supposed to have these same conveniences. In practice, a lot of things can (and do) go wrong.

In that sense, it is much like golf. Something good is supposed to happen when you swing the club – the arc of the ball landing somewhere you expect, hope for. But in practice, a lot of things can (and do) go wrong in the space between taking the club back and swinging it down again to hit the ball. That space – let’s call it the Unknown Unknown – is where your hopes and dreams for that swing go to die. For those of you smart enough not to play golf – that most frustrating and rewarding of sports – take it from me that there is a similar space in RV life. The space between the time you flick a switch, press a button, lift a lever, and what is supposed to happen does not happen.

Ten days into our one-year adventure, we have had the following mishaps:

1- Electrical problems that required calling out a mobile RV technician. (Cost: $330, which we will hopefully be reimbursed as part of warranty).

2- Repeated error codes on the thermostat that controls the AC and heat (which we realized eventually was due to the electrical problem above).

3- Struggling to get the Jeep transfer case into and out of gear for towing mode a continuing problem leaving us having to rock the Jeep back and forth manually in neutral to get the gears to connect.

4- Dumping the black holding tank at a gas station then losing another 30 minutes to find somewhere else to fill up the water tank, then arriving at the overnight campsite only to realize it had water and power and there was therefore no need to fill up the water tank.

5- The toilet backing up (which we fixed temporarily with a $10 snake from the local Ace hardware), a problem that recurred three times in the first two weeks.

6- Waking up to a broken water pump due to leaving it on all night. (Warranty service has been called, and we are awaiting diagnostics).

Much of our daily life camping is spent solving problems, setting up and breaking down camp, planning the next stop (routes, reservations, etc.), figuring out why things in the RV aren’t working the way they are supposed to, taking the dog for a walk, up at night because of the restless cat who has become completely nocturnal due to fear of all the strange sights and noises during the day, standing around watching Marina connect and reconnect all sorts of hoses and cables and tinker with tools much of the day, researching how to do things that we have never done before.

That’s how it’s been for the first ten days. As I write this, we have just finished three weeks, and as the days go by and the learning curve becomes less steep, the joyful moments of living do eventually outnumber the problem-solving because we have also experienced the following:

The satisfaction that comes from solving a seemingly overwhelming and intractable problem

For me, a childlike glee in doing things for their own sake and without expectation of result: canoeing, sitting still in the middle of the day, in the middle of a forest, listening to birdsong, staring into the flames of the campfire.

The peace that fills one’s soul, gazing out onto a lake at sunset, far from the noise of civilization

The comfort of huddling close to the fire on a chilly night.

Confidence in our skills, knowing that there is no situation that can get the better of us.

Eventually, the blog posts are going to be about the places we visit and the things we see rather (and with a lot of pictures!) than the problems we’re solving. One can only hope.

The Snake

2022-03-30T11:56:00.002-04:00

What a week we’ve had. Nothing has been simple our first 7 days of RV life. And the worst was yet to come.

Warning: No pictures ahead. Just a long, harrowing story.

The first day of our second week started off well. We managed to miss the rain as we dumped the waste holding tank on our way out of the Alexander Springs campsite, hitched up the Jeep without incident, and set off on a beautiful back road through the Ocala National Forest and into horse country. An hour and a half later, we pulled into Williston and checked in early (and paid $10 fee for the privilege). Our volunteer escort, an older woman in a golf cart with a sign that said Follow Me (we saw her many times during our stay and that sign seemed permanently affixed to her cart), led us to the site. The large spacious sites were dotted with tall shade trees and as we wound our way through the park, we noticed a pond with a fountain, a large fire pit, and a general sense of civic pride and proper maintenance.

We got to the site and the escort waited for us to unhitch the Jeep so she guide Marina into the site (though we hadn’t asked for it).

We jumped down and quickly dismantled our respective sides of the tow assembly connecting the Jeep to the RV. Just as I was feeling proud of myself for finally getting the hang of all the clips, brackets, pins and cables, the Jeep started rolling backward. I couldn’t see where the escort was positioned, and had visions of the Jeep crashing into her golf cart. I jumped into the Jeep from the passenger side and pulled the hand brake. First disaster avoided.

The escort – a few feet away on the driver’s side of the Jeep -- said something about always having the hand brake on while unhitching. This is like someone telling you to be careful after you trip or fall.

Marina backed us into the site with ease, and the escort left us to hook up. First order of business was to plug into power. Marina brought out her electrical test kit and after satisfying herself that all was well, she plugged us into the 50-amp outlet with our massive surge protector.

Next, she took out the and the water softener (blue tank) and the water filters (set of three joined together in a big black case plus another separate one), and set about hooking all that up. She laid all the brass fittings and water hoses with various connectors out on the grass. I was of no help standing over her so she told me to “go put the kettle on or something.”

I did the “or something” which was to take Charley out for a pee, give her some water, unpack the things that we put away on travel days, and generally tidy up. I went back out about 20 minutes later, and no water hook-up yet.

“Where’s my tea?” she said.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you wanted tea. Be right back.” (I haven’t learned after 22 years that “put the kettle on” means make me a cup of tea.)

I brought her a cup of tea, and she sat on the 3-filter contraption drinking it in the sun, puzzling out the water connection. “I can’t understand it,” she said. “I just did this a few days ago at the other site. There’s something I’m missing and I don’t know what it is.”

I offered to help but that required her to first explain all the parts laid out before us, and after about a minute of that, we both agreed it would be better if I went inside and made us sandwiches. Neither of us are particularly good at receiving help from the other when we are determined to figure something out for ourselves.

Finally, about an hour after starting the process, she managed to hook up the water. As with most things RV related, the solution was simple – turn the 3-filter pack in the opposite direction and then the parts would fit into place.

We opened the living room slide since all the hook-ups were done, and Marina went back outside. (When we first arrive at a campsite, Marina spends a lot of time outside doing all sorts of things that I don’t know about.)

I lured the cat out from under the bed and opened the bedroom slide. He came out right away, and I was pleased with that bit of progress. After he ate, I expected him to use the toilet but instead he went back under the bed and started scratching. I immediately followed with the flashlight. That scratching was for one reason only – pooping.

We had smelled something funny during the drive over that morning, and I had traced it to the bedroom, but with the slides closed and the coach moving, it was impossible to detect the source. By the time we had arrived at the site, the smell had either dissipated or we had gotten used to it. But now that I was right in front of it, it was hard to miss. The cat had pooped under the bed. I couldn’t see it yet, but I could smell it.

The opening under the bed was only a few inches, and it was pitch dark under there. I took some flash pictures with my phone, and saw exactly where I had to clean up. He had found a tight little spot in between the cables and steel brackets. Luckily, and I do mean luckily, it was close enough to the front that I could reach it.

I lay flat on the floor, my hand under the bed and over the steel brackets, swiping and wiping again and again, using up half a roll of toilet paper sprayed with Lysol, collecting all of it in a plastic bag, taking progress pictures to see where I had cleaned and where I had missed. Turns out the cat had done this at least once before because I picked up dried poop as well. I managed to get it all out finally, and while I was still on the floor tying up the plastic bag, Marina came back in and I told her what had happened.

“He’s going to keep going back under there to poop,” she said. “We have to keep him out.”

I agreed. We couldn’t do anything about it that day, and in any case, he had already done his business so he wouldn’t be pooping again till tomorrow. But we made a plan for the next day. We would close up the opening under the bed with plexiglass. I had suggested this back in Miami, but Marina had contrived something with blue pool noodles taped together. It wasn’t working because he had managed to claw the noodles out of the way, and the entire contraption was unwieldy and took up way too much space in the bedroom. We dismantled it and Marina took the noodles outside to store in one of the bays.

By this time, it was close to two o’clock, and I was looking forward to sitting down and relaxing.

Now, before I tell you what happened next, you need to first understand how an RV toilet works. It’s similar to a boat toilet. There’s a holding tank, called a black tank, and the toilet sits on top of the tank. The “flush” is a lever you operate with your foot, which opens a sealed flap inside the toilet to flush away whatever is in the bowl into the holding tank. The toilet bowl is connected to the holding tank via a pipe which drops straight down.

I used the bathroom, and when I flushed, I could still see wads of tissue when the toilet flap to the tank below opened. That’s odd, I thought. We had just emptied the holding tank that morning before arriving here, so there shouldn’t be all that paper in the tank. Marina had gone back outside again, and I told her as soon as she came back in. She tried to flush the toilet, and sewage started backing up into the bowl.

A wave of shock, disgust, horror at what might possibly happen if the sewage continued to rise, all of that passed through me. But only for a second. With age and experience, both Marina and I have learned to focus on the task at hand, especially in an emergency, and not panic or let our emotions drive us. Marina had complained that I was using too much tissue, and I had complained that the RV tissue she bought was too thin, but we didn’t discuss any of that now.

We closed the toilet lid and each of us separately Googled how to unblock an RV toilet. Boiling water and ice cubes were two different suggestions, but both would take hours and may not work. It was clear to me (though not to Marina, who hadn’t seen it) that the blockage was the toilet tissue at the top of the pipe. The tank was empty, so luckily, there wouldn’t be massive amounts of sewage about to spill into our RV. But even the one bowlful would be unacceptable. Another suggestion was a snake, but Marina vetoed that, saying snakes were no good for RV toilets.

She found a YouTube video with a procedure that “Works Every Time!” to unclog an RV toilet. It involved emptying the gray tank into the hose hook-up outside, then lifting up the hose with the water from the gray tank and then levering it vigorously to push that water up into the black tank to clear it. I said that looks needlessly complicated and there is no way the water is going to get from outside all the way up through the black tank to the bottom of the toilet, which is where the blockage is. But she insisted we try it, and I have learned that with Marina that it is best not to argue, especially when its comes to anything technical related to the RV.

I’ll spare you all of the going into and out of the coach, hooking and unhooking, starting and stopping, trying to flush, turning the water off and then on, and all the steps and missteps to execute this “Works Every Time!” solution. It didn’t work this time. In the meantime, I ordered a chemical from Amazon that breaks down toilet tissue in RVs and boats. Unfortunately, it would take 48 hours to arrive and we needed a solution now.

There was an Ace Hardware a mile from us, so Marina sent me there with instructions to get a plunger. On the way there, she called to say that a plunger wouldn’t work because there was no P-trap on an RV toilet, and so I should just get a long stick that she would poke through the flap at the bottom of the toilet to loosen whatever was blocked. I went to Ace, and explored a pressure washer gun. Too much water everywhere, too much pressure, too dangerous, Marina said. I asked another Ace worker for a long stick, and then I told him what the problem was. Why don’t you just use a snake? he said, and led me to the plumbing aisle. I picked up a 3-ft household snake for $9.99 plus tax.

Marina plunged the coiled wire into the depths of the toilet, and I turned the handle at the end. The toilet gurgled and spit and all the sewage went down. I was flooded with relief. The tension that I hadn’t realized built up inside suddenly subsided.

The snake emerged clogged full of toilet tissue. Careful not to touch any part that went into the toilet, we put all but the snake’s handle in a bag and took it outside to wash and disinfect. I gave silent thanks for the snake, to whoever invented it, to the Ace hardware being nearby, to the gentleman who suggested it, and to Marina for knowing how to use it.

Later that day, we stopped for ice cream – vanilla for Marina and chocolate for me. It was piled precariously high atop the cone, and though I held it carefully, two large dollops fell to the ground. As I picked them up with a napkin, I was glad it was evening, and that this would be the last brown substance I would be cleaning up that day.

Ancient Rituals, Modern Times

2022-03-30T11:52:00.000-04:00

Camping takes us back to an ancient time. Out in remote areas, making your own food, gathering around the fire, life becomes tribal once more, ancient in its rhythms. Up with the sun, to bed at dark. The gypsy caravans, the covered wagons have been replaced by modern vehicles. But the feeling of refuge from the world outside is the same.

As I walk Charley, and the night closes in on us, the oak trees reaching to the sky, I imagine travelers from another time, another era, making their way on foot, weary from the journey, looking for a place to stop for the night to seek safety from animals, thieves and worse. Instead of the campfires that they would have seen, as I round the corner to the campground, I see the LED lights of camper vans, RVs, and tents, and it is a relief. We have made it back, we have conquered the dark, and the world outside.

Inside the vehicles, lamps and electric lights reveal people having supper, reading, all of us cocooned in our campers, the hot light of the TV casting its glow over our entranced faces, replacing the storyteller around the campfires of old

The First Day of the RV Trip

2022-03-30T11:46:00.005-04:00

We made so many mistakes our first day. The first was actually done before the first day -- we didn’t do a test drive with the tow vehicle behind us. We tested the set-up and made sure the electrics and brake worked, but we hadn’t actually driven it. The first time we drove with the Jeep behind us was with everything packed and stowed, the cat in his carrier in Duchess, just as we were about to set off on our adventure. We hitched the tow vehicle on the road in front of my aunt’s house (where we had been parked for five days getting ready for our departure), taking up a good bit of road, causing a minor traffic diversion. Marina had to fiddle with the brake cable on the tow bar, but she wasn’t satisfied that the brake lever on the tow hitch was working as it should. I was crestfallen, stressing about the animals in the vehicle, thinking we would have to postpone our departure yet another day. Marina decided it worked well enough for Florida and we would get it sorted out at a mechanic before we hit mountainous topography out west.

When we arrived at our destination five hours later, we had to drive down three miles of unpaved washboard road. We had read about this road in the reviews, but figured we could handle it. That will be the first and last time we take Duchess down an unpaved road. Even at 5 miles an hour, everything inside the cabinets was clattering, and the coach itself squeaked and rattled as she lumbered along.

3 miles of unpaved washboard road!

We unhitched the Jeep before putting the parking brake on, so it started rolling gently forward towards the back of Duchess! Marina held the Jeep back while I jumped in and engaged the parking brake. When I came back out, Marina calmly said, “That’ll teach us.” I loved her for the way she said it.

Other things we learned on day one:

1. Don’t trust that things on the kitchen or the table will stay there when you start moving. Some things will, and some won’t. Within minutes of us setting off, we made a right turn and a basket of onions, garlic and beer bottles clattered to the floor, terrifying the cat.

2. Double and triple-check that the fridge door is locked. I left it unlocked accidentally at a stop and as soon as Marina drove off, the fridge door flew open and bottles and jars came flying out. Yogurt splattered all over the bathroom floor and lower cabinet.

3. Before departure, eat something or have something ready to eat handy because it’s going to take a lot longer than you think to get to your destination.

4. Don’t forget your outdoor set up. I had bought a lovely little portable aluminum table for all our outdoor meals, but Marina had packed our almost-new beach chairs, which were low to the ground, and nowhere near usable with the table. An outdoor mat is also essential for campsites without a concrete pad.

Chairs don't match the table height and no outdoor mat

5. There are no mistakes, only learning experiences. This is perhaps the hardest learning of all.

At the end of the first day, as I was thinking about all the things we could have done better, it struck me how much pressure we both put on ourselves to do things right. But when we sat in our beach chairs that didn’t match our table, with Charley laying in the grass, and Handsome sitting on the steps of the coach, ready to run back in at the first sight of danger, the Spanish moss on the trees swaying in the gentle breeze, and the laptops, tablets and phones put away, it occurred to me that all the screw-ups we had made that first day were part of the journey. No matter how much we researched and prepared, there would always be something we couldn’t anticipate. We were both under a lot of pressure the last few months – finding a tenant, moving out of our home, preparing Duchess for the journey, settling things and tying up loose ends. Had I known everything that’s entailed in packing up your life for a year, I’m not sure I would have done it. But I’m also 100% sure that I will look back on this year with joy and not regret a moment of it. And I’m sure it will be full of learning experiences!

Beautiful oak trees draped with Spanish moss
line the trails at Hickory Hammock

A New Adventure Begins

2022-03-28T22:40:00.064-04:00

I went white-water rafting for the first time in early August 2021. Including flying time, flight delays, airport layovers, and driving, it took about 18 hours door-to-door from South Beach to the Payette River Rafting Company in Idaho. That journey was brutal.

The two-hour raft ride on the Payette River was delightful and exhilarating. As we approached the end, floating through the gorge, the sky framed by steep rugged rock, I wasn’t ready to leave. And I wasn’t looking forwar d to the hour and forty-minute drive back to Boise.

That's me in the coral jacket on the left rear of the raft

It had never crossed my mind to go white-water rafting. The activity for our sibling weekend had been organized by my brother. I enjoyed it so much that two hours wasn’t enough, and that short time on the Payette River made me think about all the things I hadn’t done, all the wild and beautiful places of America I hadn’t seen.

I noticed camper vans parked along the banks of the river, people in lawn chairs, nursing beers, starting barbecues or nibbling on sandwiches, their dogs sniffing nearby or at their feet.

They get to stay here all weekend? I asked.

Yup, said our rafting guide.

How come?

You just book a site. If you have a reservation, you can stay.

One couple on our raft mentioned that they had an RV. The wife was a traveling nurse; they moved from one location to the next, spending six to eight weeks at a time. I don’t know if it was destiny or coincidence that a couple with an RV ended up on our raft, but I do know that when I got on that raft, I wouldn’t have gone camping if you had paid me, but before I got off, I decided that we should rent our apartment, pack up our things, and go on the road for a year to explore America.

Marina had been trying to get me camping for years, and I had refused. I need my long luxurious daily showers, and I like indoor plumbing and modern conveniences. No roughing it for me. So when I flew back to Miami and proposed this plan, she couldn’t believe it, and was all for it. I started this blog on our cross-country move from Los Angeles to Miami Beach in 2013. On that trip, Marina and I planted seeds for this journey today -- we talked about traveling around the country in an RV, and now nine years later, we were actually going to do it.

We listed the apartment for rent in early September, bought an RV in early December, secured a tenant by the end of the year, moved out on January 27^th, and hit the road March 9^th. That sentence encapsulates six months of uncertainty, inconvenience, packing up a three-bedroom condo, whittling down a lifetime of accumulation into necessities for the road, organizing work to operate from afar, stocking and preparing the RV, learning all about its mechanical, plumbing and electrical systems, selling the two vehicles that couldn’t be flat-towed behind the RV and buying a Jeep Wrangler that could, and finally, saying goodbye to family and friends. Much of those six months was arduous, but we kept our goal firmly in mind, and that helped us get through it.

Marina had suggested we rent an RV for a weekend to make sure this lifestyle was something I liked and could handle. We rented a 28-foot Jayco motor home and stayed at an RV park off a busy road, motor homes and campers parked practically on top of each other at a nondescript site. It rained all weekend. There was nothing to do at the RV park, and we didn’t have a vehicle with us since we had left it where we picked up the rental. Even so, I loved it. I loved the feeling of waking up in the camper, the coziness of the dining booth, the outdoor grilling and eating. I loved being away from the relentless routine of daily life, and I even got used to not having cell service all weekend. Marina was satisfied that if I loved being in an awful RV park during bad weather with nothing to do, then I was ready to get on the road and see some truly beautiful places.

We had already spent quite a bit of time hunting second-hand RVs, but we couldn’t find anything that satisfied us. Everything was either too big, too small or too brown. (I can’t understand the fascination with brown interiors in RVs.) We had rented the 28-footer because that’s the size we thought we wanted, but by the end of the weekend, we decided that for full-time living, we needed a few feet more. Marina had thoroughly researched the various RV manufacturers, and she had narrowed down our options to two brands for reliability and quality – Tiffin and Newmar.

While sitting at the dining booth in our rental, we looked at the floor plans for those two brands, and eliminated the Tiffin because the TV was in an awkward location on the smaller models that we wanted. We set our sights on the 31-foot Bay Star by Newmar, which had everything we needed in the right configuration. I lobbied hard for the 34-footer, which came with a washer and dryer, but Marina was concerned it was too big. “What’s an extra three feet?” I argued. But she would be the one driving so I had to defer to her judgment. The Internet revealed that the exact model we wanted was sitting on a dealer’s lot not far from where we would return the rental. In fact, it was literally on the way home. We decided to go check out the floor plan in person to make sure it was what we wanted so we could then find a second-hand one.

We called ahead and made an appointment after dropping off the rental. We had to wait a long time to see the salesman, and almost gave up, but since we had narrowed down our options to this model and this alone, and there was none other for at least 500 miles, we needed to see it.

She was parked by herself in a lot, slides out, blue and gray paint bright even in the cloudy weather. The salesman opened the door, and the minute we stepped inside, I fell in love. The cabinets reminded me of a French farmhouse – a warm crème color with an oil-rubbed finish along the moulding. The sofa, dinette booth and cab chairs in front were a soft gray. All the lights were on in the coach and they created an inviting glow. As the salesman walked us through, showing us the bedroom in the back and the bathroom, I knew this was The One.

The test drive went better than expected; Marina drove her smoothly through highway traffic. Afterwards, we were in the coach for a long time. I lost track. He sat on the sofa, in no hurry to leave, discussing all the features, answering Marina’s questions. I sat on the dinette booth, and all I could hear was a voice in my head saying, “We have to have it. We have to have it. We have to have it.”

Everything I knew about negotiating went out the window. Not just because of the insistent inner child inside me who demanded that we not leave without it, but also because we were in a time of scarcity; houses, cars, RVs, all had crazy prices due to lack of availability from supply chain issues caused by Covid. I managed to shave a little bit off the price and a point off the interest rate, and about three hours after we walked into the dealership, we had found our new home for the next year.

We named her Duchess, and the new Jeep Wrangler to tow behind her was called Duke. If you're on Instagram, you can see a video tour of her: part one and part two. You can also follow our adventures in Duchess on our Instagram page.

Duke and Duchess

Goa

2014-11-13T13:59:00.000-05:00

Goa is shrouded in a mythology of hippies, sophisticated party goers, European tourists, and remnants of Portuguese culture. Vast numbers of charter flights now descend on Goa during the season, many of them carrying the new Russian middle-class looking for their place in the sun. Over Christmas and New Years, Mumbai’s “high society” takes over the bars and restaurants with nonstop parties. Real estate prices have climbed through the roof, and a taxi mafia has a stranglehold on trips from the airport. And yet, pockets of bohemia still exist, and hippies manage to cling to this laid-back piece of paradise.

The first thing we noticed about Goa is how lush it is. The drive from the airport to my aunt’s house in North Goa was lined by rich tropical foliage, and we passed through lots of small villages and shorelines dotted with fishing boats. Everything moves at a relaxed, easy pace, in marked contrast to Mumbai, from where we had just come.

We arrived a few days before Diwali, the Hindu New Year, and we saw many Goans building gigantic paper-mache demons. Some of these demons were over 20 feet tall.

The demons represent the evil King Narkasur, a former Goan king, who was defeated by Lord Krishna in the early hours before Diwali. In celebration of and gratitude for this, every year, men gather around their paper-mache demons and drink themselves silly while a DJ pumps house music. Then, around 4am, the men attack the demon, beating and kicking it and setting fire to it. Unfortunately, we weren’t awake to witness this.

We stayed at my aunt’s home on the banks of the Nerul River in the village of Nerul; as a fashion designer and artist, she has created an appealing and welcoming environment, dotted with her acquisitions from all over the world. Her husband has created a riotous garden full of interesting plants and the entire effect is one of harmony and balance.

The Goan government had just launched a women’s taxi service a few days before we arrived so we hired one of them to take us around Goa but she kept taking us to various churches. We preferred to just wander around and soak in the laid-back atmosphere, and we also paid a visit to the arts center, set in a leafy residential neighborhood on a hill in a restored old home that is an examplar of Portuguese architecture, with its central courtyard, beautiful old tiles, archways and woodwork.

central courtyard is signature feature of Goan architecture

Lovely old original tiles

One of the highlights of our trip to Kerala in 2012 was a trip down the river in a houseboat powered entirely by a man using a pole. Since Goa is very near Kerala, and has similar terrain, including lots of waterways, we wanted to replicate that experience here, if not on a houseboat, then at least by a boat that didn’t use engines because the lack of noise creates a lovely peaceful environment. Unfortunately, that option was not to be.

In Kerala, we had seen lots of brahminy kites, majestic copper-colored eagle with white breasts and heads, and these birds are equally prevalent in Goa. The boatman put chicken heads on the boat to attract them, and I managed to get a shot of the kite grabbing its meal.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get many good bird shots because the engine scared away the smaller birds before we could get close enough. But I did manage a few, and some decent shots of the landscape, the river, and Goan architecture. Incredibly, we didn't have a chance to make it to any of the beaches. That will have to wait for our next trip.

Brahminy kite in flight

Honey buzzard

Kingfisher

Goan sunset

The City Beautiful

2014-10-31T13:56:00.000-04:00

Chandigarh was created after Partition to serve as the capital of the state of Punjab because Lahore, formerly the Punjab capital, went to Pakistan. It is India’s first planned city.

Our original plan was to drive straight to the airport and fly out but we decided to take things easy and spend a night, and we enjoyed the city so much that we ended up spending a second night.

Chandigarh is a lovely break from the madness that is India. The wide tree-lined boulevards are not overcrowded with cars crawling over every inch of tarmac, and we found the drivers far more respectful of traffic signs and each other. The city doesn’t see many tourists so Marina elicited a lot of stares and a few people wanted to take her picture, which she didn’t mind.

Chandigarh is famous for being designed by Le Corbusier, and a few of his buildings are still in operation today. Like much of India, you have to go through a bureaucratic process, but we managed to skip it somehow by talking our way past the security guard at the courthouse and then asking someone from the Protocol office to take us around to the front of the building to get some pictures. Stupidly, the views in the pictures below are accessible only to judges and tourists who get past the bureaucrats. The public enters through the back of the building, which looks like a gray monolith.

Courthouse designed by Le Corbusier

Detail of Courthouse

Courthouse view

Courthouse alternative view

Le Corbusier's Open Hand Monument, which is found everywhere in Chandigarh

By far our favorite attraction in Chandigarh was the Rock Garden. It was created by Nek Chand, a road inspector involved in the creation of the new city, who collected a lot of the waste that was being generated by the tearing up of villages to build a new city. He created sculptures out of these waste materials and started building the garden out of rocks on public forest land. He managed to keep his project a secret for 18 years. When authorities discovered it in 1975, it had grown to a 12-acre complex of linked courtyards filled with hundreds of pottery and concrete sculptures. Originally slated to be demolished, the work was saved by public opinion and became a public space in 1976. Nek Chand was given a salary and a staff of 50 laborers to work on the garden full time. Today, the project continues to grow, and is still made out of recycled materials. The sculpture collections of different groups of people reminded me of "It's a Small World" at Disneyworld. The garden is truly fantastical, with trees and roots made of concrete, walls of carved rock and electric fittings, man made waterfalls, an amphitheater and colorful mosaics.

We spent a few hours wandering the grounds, stunned by the vision and labor of what a single person could create. I highly recommend a trip to this place if you want to be inspired and motivated by art.

Wall of electric fittings

Wall of pottery

Moment of reflection in the amphitheater

Bridge over quiet water

Concrete miniature house

Creator of the Rock Garden

Wall of rocks

Fantastical shapes of concrete

Concrete sculptures embedded in wall

Wall of electric fittings and pottery collection

Some of Nek Chand's original sculptures

Detail of sculptures

Path leading to waterfall

Sculptures made of recycled materials

Man made waterfall

Enjoying the swings of rubber tires

Horse sculpture of concrete and ceramic shards

Elephant "trees" made of concrete

A moment of reflection

"Trees" made of concrete

Like almost everywhere else we went in India on this trip, the place was swarming with Indian tourists. Maybe because we came around Diwali, which is celebrated in a big way here, and people take time off much as they do for Christmas and New Year's in the West. One troubling thing in the rock garden was the camel in the courtyard who remained standing in the sun for hours while his handler sat on a chair waiting for people who wanted to take a photo or a camel ride. The whole business of using animals for people's pleasure is very distasteful to me, especially the ridiculous horse and carriage rides where a horse, usually in poor condition, has to haul around a huge heavy carriage and 5 or 6 people in traffic at a brisk pace, just so people can say they've experienced this novelty. I will be so happy when people are banned in all countries from using animals for their own pleasure.

Camel has to stand up for hours in the sun while his handler naps

Indian tourists captivated by the camel

A Night in Shimla

2014-10-31T13:00:00.000-04:00

Simla (pronounced Shimla) is best known as the summer capital of the British Raj. While India was under British rule, the resourceful Brits escaped the heat of the Gangetic plain in Delhi by setting up their offices in this cool hilly town. They often spent many months of the year in this town in the southwestern range of the Himalayas, deciding the fate of much of the world’s population.

We didn’t linger, stopping here for just one night on our way to Chandigarh, and it was just enough time to get a feel for the town. The hub of town is reached primarily by lifts (elevators) which take you from the base of the mountain up to the top in two different segments.

At the top is Mall Road, a pedestrian street lined with restaurants and shops, (including Benetton, which apparently is still around), and the Ridge, a pedestrian strip above Mall Road with lovely old English buildings, many of which are sadly crumbling. The architecture of Mall Road and the Ridge road is reminiscent of an English village town, but the steady stream of Indian tourists, street dogs, and naughty monkeys reminds you that you are unmistakeably in India.

The highlights of Shimla include the Viceregal Lodge, which unfortunately was closed the day we were there, and lovely English style architecture.

Regrettably, we did not stay in the Cecil Oberoi, but managed to stop in for lunch before leaving Shimla. Indian service in five-star hotels is unmatched anywhere in the world, and the Taj and Oberoi brands are exceptional at delivering good service. Every staff member makes you feel like they are there only to serve your needs. They take the time-honored standard of Indian hospitality to a new level. I’ll just let the pictures and the captions tell the rest of our Shimla story.

English village architecture of Shimla

Naughty and aggressive monkeys are a constant threat

Beautiful buildings going to wreck and ruin

Wild monkey begging for food

One of the many Indo-English buildings

The Railway Station Building

View of the Ridge

Ladies enjoying a view of the Ridge

Lunch at the Cecil Oberoi

Children taking exams

The Temple of Nature

2014-10-18T12:14:00.004-04:00

Jalori Pass (October 12, 2014)

Sadly, we had to take our leave of Himalayan Trout House, the village of Nagini, and the Tirthan Valley. Breakfast the next day was a long round of good-byes, until we pulled ourselves away and started on the drive to Shimla. Raja had recommended that we go via the Jalori Pass, a longer route on a country road, because it would be far less crowded and the views were spectacular. I was hesitant to do a 7-hour journey on winding mountain roads because of motion sickness, but it turned out to be worth it. The views were majestic, and no amount of description could do them any justice.

Spectacular view from Jalori Pass road

Majestic Himalayan mountains

Close-up of a peak viewed from Jalori Pass road

Long view

More amazing valley views

The Himalayas have had a mystical hold on me for much of my life. These mountains are the birthplace of many of the gods of Hindu mythology, and the setting for many archetypal stories. For years, I have wondered what it would be like to live as a Himalayan hermit; I have closed my eyes and imagined viewing the earth from its high ridges. Jalori Pass is the mountain pass at the top of a particular range and the views from the road approaching the top filled me with awe and wonder at this incredible place we call Earth. She is a mother and she is beautiful, and we must learn to respect her. A camera cannot capture the three-dimensional perspective nor the multi-dimensional feeling of gazing out around you from a height of 10,800 feet. I can understand why people endure extreme conditions in search of the last great wild places on Earth. There are so few left, and that feeling of being surrounded by nature is as close as some people get to seeing God. The silence, the reverence, in the Golden Temple of the Sikhs and in the temple complex of the Dalai Lama had the same quality as out here, in the temple of nature, above these majestic mountains steeped in snow and silence.

As we left the high pass and descended down the other side of the mountain, the landscape changed again. Finally, we approached the seven hills of Shimla as the sun was setting, and a long and beautiful day of travel came to an end.

Seven Hills of Simla

Approach road to Shimla from Jalori Pass

Descending into the valley from Jalori Pass

Seven Hills of Shimla

Approaching Shimla at sunset

Sunset over seven hills of Simla

Another sunset shot

Last sunset shot

A Study in Starch

2014-10-18T12:00:00.001-04:00

Tirthan Valley, Day 3 (October 11, 2014)

The next day we drove to the village of Gushaini and then walked the 8 kilometer (5 mile) uphill trail to the entrance of Great Himalaya National Park. We didn’t intend to do a 10-mile roundtrip walk in one day but we decided we’d go as far as we could. We encountered quite a few villagers walking down the path. It turns out that there are a fair few villages along the trail and many of the residents do the trail daily from their homes to the main village of Gushaini. The architecture is fairly consistent here: a rectangular two-level structure, with the bottom floor used for storage and the top floor being an enclosed veranda wrapping around the sleeping rooms.

Villagers on the way down the hill

Trail to entrance of Great Himalayan National Park

View of the river from the trail

Local architecture of village home. Notice corn drying on roof

Bird-spotting

View from the trail

About 2 miles up the trail

Poor tired donkeys carrying sand up the hill for construction

Marina kept marveling at the fact that all building materials are brought up the hill, mostly by poor tired little donkeys. Gautam had told us that he had seen a villager drag a log that was about a foot in diameter and 17 feet long up the hill. The mountain people were tough, he said, and we had seen that ourselves. Women bent forward carried huge loads of grass on their backs. I thought of the old woman we had seen at the Golden Temple who couldn’t stand up, whose back was bent forward forever, and who could only see the ground below her. A lifetime of carrying heavy loads would have done this. How many others were destined for this? Arguably, even the poorest person in Europe is much better off financially than the poorest person in India. Europe has a large social net to catch those less fortunate; here there’s very little social welfare. How is it that some people have the good fortune to be born in Europe or America and others end up at the bottom rung of the social ladder in India or China? Is it simply luck? I don’t believe, as the Hindus do, that one’s current life is determined by the bad karma of a past life. That’s too simplistic, too easy a way to dismiss the misfortunes of millions, and probably an explanation derived by powerful priests and kings to keep the man on the street from striving to improve his lot. It’s fashionable in certain spiritual circles to believe that the soul chooses its life before being born, chooses its gender, parents, and many traumatic experiences. I’m not sure if I believe that either. It’s more empowering than the Hindu belief (or for that matter the Christian notion of original sin) but it still seems too easy an explanation to dismiss problematic and thorny situations, and still has an element of holding a person responsible for being born into a bad situation. Maybe we need to find a reason other than pure chance for winning the lottery of life to relieve our own guilt. How else to justify to ourselves how some of us got so lucky?

These and other thoughts occupied me as we walked the trail. We were expecting to see a lot of birds and butterflies, but apparently, in India, even the birds get a late start to the day, and we didn’t see many of them until later in the afternoon on our walk back. We didn’t have a pedometer with us so we couldn’t tell exactly, but after my legs told me that we had done approximately 3 miles, mostly uphill, we stopped in the middle of the path, sat down on a shaded rock, and ate our packed lunch. We humans sure do eat a lot of starch, probably because it’s cheap and easy. In America, you can have potato starch with your wheat starch (burger with fries), and in India, you can have the same (potato vegetable with wheat tortilla). As I write this, I’m on the plane, and in the airport as well as on the plane, every meal option is primarily a starch: sandwiches, pasta, rice and veg. It’s no wonder so many of us have the shape of potatoes.

After our starchy lunch, we headed back to the lodge and Marina tried her hand at fly-fishing again while I watched the evening soap opera of birds at the river through my binoculars. They chased each other around, guarding territory, they took baths, they fed on insects. Remarkable. The naked and untrained eye has no idea of the high drama going on in nature all the time.

Don’t Give Up Hope

2014-10-18T11:34:00.000-04:00

Tirthan Valley, Day 2 (October 10, 2014)

Our first full day in Tirthan Valley, we went for a hike. The village of Nagini, where we were staying, is about 5,000 feet above sea level, like Manali, but neither of us had any altitude sickness. We climbed about another 1,000 feet through lush forest and a handful of village homes, fresh corn cobs and red chilis drying on the roof, until we reached a lovely waterfall.

View of the village about 25% of the way up the climb

Villagers living on the hill

Villager living on the hill

Chilis drying in the sun

Corn cobs drying on the roof

Christopher had given us precise and excellent directions, the most significant of which Marina kept repeating: “Don’t give up hope.” We had met three Indian tourists on the trail, two of whom had trekking poles, and they had decided to turn back because the trail became narrow and rocky. “It’s proper trekking,” one of them said. Christopher had warned us about the short rocky patch, so when we got to it, we scrambled over it and got back on the trail. I couldn’t believe they had turned back because of that but as Marina pointed out to me, “They’re city folk, darling.” It got me thinking about how many of us turn back from our goals because of a little discomfort or fear. I could handle this rocky patch, but how many metaphorical rocky patches had I turned back from for fear that I wasn’t equipped to handle it, that I wasn’t a “proper trekker.”

When we got to the end, in the near distance, we could see the large waterfall, about 300 feet high, cascading down the hill, but the path seemed covered with brush. Right near us, a smaller waterfall fell into two large pools. We explored the areas around the pool and I dipped my feet in the water, which was ice cold! Marina built little stupas with the rocks and bits of green glass lying around. We lazed in the sun for a long while and I marveled that we had the entire place all to ourselves. It was a magical afternoon and I wished we had thought to bring a picnic lunch.

Taking a break up the hill

Waterfall in sight!

Pool from large waterfall leading to smaller waterfall

That water was cold!!

Lazing in the sun

So lovely to have it all to ourselves!

One of Marina's stupas

As we got ready to head back down the hill, I decided to see if there was a path to the large waterfall. The brush was a bit overgrown but we pushed through and reached the part where thousands of gallons of water gushed down every second, wearing away the stone. The force of that water, if harnessed, would have been enough to at least power the little village homes we had seen. The ice-cold water collected in a large pool, which in turn emptied into the smaller pools we had seen below. Had we not pushed aside the brush, we would have missed this magnificent sight. We had been so content with what we had below that we didn’t bother trying to go to the top. That’s certainly a metaphor for my life. I’m basically a lazy person who likes to work smart, not hard, and if I can avoid working altogether, I’ll take that option any day. I wonder how many magnificent and powerful waterfalls I have missed because of being too lazy to clear the brush-covered path to the top.

Now that's a waterfall!

We got back to the lodge just in time for a home-made buffet lunch of good Indian food. I restrained myself from taking thirds. After lunch, Raja gave Marina a crash course in fly-fishing and we accompanied him and Masja on an escapade further down the river. We piled in the back of his gypsy and bounced along the bumpy road to a spot where the water rushed over rocks and created lovely pools. Apparently, trout are just like me. They prefer not to work too hard so they just lounge around in pools created by strong currents, waiting for their food (insects, etc.) to be delivered to them. Marina cast her line in the water while I watched kingfishers and wader birds douse themselves and catch insects in the gushing stream.

Fly-fishing is apparently the art of landing a fake fly on the water just so, to try and trick a trout into thinking it’s a real meal. But the trout are wilier than that. They can tell the difference between a fake and a real fly, and if you don’t cast gracefully, they can tell by the movement. Plus, they can see you with their fish eyes. Even though Raja and Masja, like virtually all the HTH guests, practice catch-and-release so that the river’s stocks don’t get depleted, I was glad that Marina didn’t catch anything. Someone mentioned a Cambridge study which concluded that fish don’t have nerve endings in their mouth so they don’t feel pain, but even so, it can’t be fun to be lifted out of your home by a hook in your mouth and left to thrash around a bit for air till someone manages to take a picture before throwing you back in.

Our new friend Raja teaching Marina how to fly fish

Marina practicing her cast

Getting the wrist action right!

The beautiful Tirthan River

The talk at dinner was all about fly fishing, which, like everything else, has its own jargon. One of the other guests, Gautam, described the HTH as the Times Square of fly-fishing in India. The place is apparently a haven for all 150 (per Gautam’s count) of the fly fishermen in India. Based on the time of day and year, you choose a different paraphernalia to catch the fish. Marina’s bead was apparently not shiny enough (a fact I’ve mentioned to her many times over the years), and another guest simply had the wrong kind of fly. After a good many jokes and stories, we retired with bellies and hearts full. We were scheduled to leave the next morning, but had not had our fill, so we extended our stay. Unfortunately, HTH was full to capacity the next day so Christopher arranged for us to stay in the neighboring homestay. It was a far cry from the style and design of HTH, but it was worth it to spend another magical day in Tirthan Valley with our new friends.

A Magical Valley

2014-10-16T22:26:00.001-04:00

Tirthan Valley, Day 1 (October 9, 2014)

I found this unspoiled secret valley while looking for a good stopping point between Manali and Shimla. Google maps showed a place called Great Himalaya National Park, and a bit of research on the Internet led me to Tirthan Valley.

I had almost given up going because all I could find were home stays that looked too rustic and basic. Indian standards of hygiene are, to put it bluntly, seriously lacking. Even in really good hotels, we encountered carpets that weren’t vacuumed unless we asked them to, faucets with water spots from prior guests, and a general lack of attention to detail. India may be a spiritual country, but it certainly didn’t invent the phrase, “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” and it doesn’t appear to believe that either. I think this is in large part due to the fact that men are now doing jobs traditionally done by women. When was the last time you met a straight man who thought a carpet needed vacuuming?

But I had my heart set on exploring this beautiful valley so I kept looking and emailing places until I stumbled on a place called TheHimalayan Trout House (HTH), which luckily had availability for two nights.

From the Manali-Shimla highway, we turned off a dirt track and drove for many miles (sorry, kilometers) to reach the place. For a good while, our driver stopped to ask people to make sure we were on the right track. But we kept following the Tirthan river on the winding roads and passed several little villages until we arrived at HTH in the village of Nagini.

Main road through the Valley and the villages

Wildflowers

Plowing the fields

Village of Nagini in Tirthan Valley

Tirthan River flowing thru the Valley and the villages

Sound of rushing water beats the sound of traffic!

The beautiful Tirthan River

The room was chilly but with a lovely veranda overlooking the river, and very artistically decorated. I’d been queasy from the drive so we didn’t do much of anything that evening other than sit on the veranda and enjoy the sound of the river just outside our lodge rushing over the large rocks.

Dinner was served in a communal area of wooden tables and stone benches with cushions, all encircling a fire. This is where the magic began. First we met Christopher, the co-owner of HTH with his wife Shefali. A former schoolteacher, he regaled us with a few stories. He explained that all the construction was done by him and the four men on staff (“except the fat cook”) when they didn’t have guests, including the woodwork, i.e., the dining tables, bathroom sink supports, and rustic cupboards. The land itself was owned by relatives of the men working for him: “They are my landlords,” he said. “I’m not building this for my son. He’ll probably want to do something else.” Christopher spoke in a clear matter-of-fact way and I imagined him in front of a room of rapt students.

Soon we met our fellow travelers at the next table, and we took instantly to a lovely family. The father was an Indian man with a voice I could have listened to all day. Imagine the most genteel British accent you have ever heard and blend it with just the right amount of Indian to make it understandable, now add a soft-spoken baritone and a deep knowledge of everything from fishing and polo to art, architecture and ancient history. Raja is well read, well traveled and unfailingly polite. He let other people speak instead of interrupting them because he wasn’t interested simply in getting his point across. He looks like a big bear of a man, imposing and regal, but he has the most gentle soul.

He met his wife Masja, who is Dutch, in Delhi. They have two children, a 13-year-old girl and a 16-year-old boy. The young girl is charming, personable and wise beyond her years. Both the children have been home-schooled by their parents, primarily using documentaries, and raised in the Summer Hill schooling philosophy out of Britain. Over the course of the next few breakfasts and dinners, we exchanged ideas and stories with Raja and Masja, and looked forward to mealtimes.

Manali -- Valley of the Gods

2014-10-14T13:43:00.001-04:00

(October 6-9, 2014)

We left Dharamshala and headed northeast to Manali, a town long favored by honeymooners and backpackers. Driving on the narrow curving mountain roads is like a game of chicken: most locals drive in the middle of the road, and don’t move over to their side when another car comes from the opposite direction. So you have to squeeze onto the non-existent shoulder and hope you don’t get run off the road. We were grateful for the competence of our driver and for the fact that we were flanked by the mountain rather than the other side with a steep drop.

Once we turned onto the highway going north towards Manali, the landscape opened dramatically into a long, deep canyon with the Beas River at the base. The curvy bendy highway tracked the river all the way up to Manali, and thankfully, drivers observed the markings separating the two opposite lanes. This landscape was what I had come to see in the Himalayas, and it did not disappoint. Around each bend was a sight more beautiful than the last. We found ourselves saying “Spectacular!” over and over.

We arrived in Manali too late to do anything but crash in the room. As it turned out, we didn’t end up doing much in Manali. Our planned paragliding adventure was aborted by our witnessing (and getting somewhat involved in) an accident of another paraglider. By the time we extricated ourselves from that and went to see the Hadimba temple, the lines were too long. The following day, Marina was unwell from the lousy food in the hotel so we spent the day in the room making bookings for the rest of the trip and taking pictures of the stunning mountains outside the hotel room.

Pictures can't do justice to this landscape, but pictures are all I have for you.

No roads lead to this house. Everyone walks up the mountains.

Views leading into Manali

Beas River as we head north to Manali

Spectacular canyon road leading to Manali

Views from canyon road to Manali

Beas River

Views from Rohtang Pass road

Our paragliding adventure was not meant to me

No room for error on landing

Narrow landing site

A lot of gliders in the air!

Paragliding landing site on left

View from hotel room

Close-up of view from hotel room

Extreme close-up of view from hotel room

To Dharamshala for the Dalai Lama

2014-10-14T12:03:00.003-04:00

McCleod Ganj (October 4-6, 2014)

From Amritsar, we went by road with a car and driver from (Rajasthan Four Wheel Drive, which we highly recommend) to Himachal Pradesh, in the north of India, for a 2-week tour. Our first stop was Dharamshala, home of Tibet’s government-in-exile and the Dalai Lama. Actually, all the action (Buddhist and tourist) takes place in the town right next door, called McLeod Ganj, (Mcclo for short), named after a British lieutenant governor of Punjab. The town is also known as Little Lhasa because Tibetans and their culture permeate the town’s steep, narrow, winding streets. Burgundy-robed monks clutching cell phones and iPads can be seen walking through town, eating lunch in restaurants, having shoes repaired, meeting other monk friends outside the shops, and of course, visiting the local temple.

Monk on cell phone

Notice monk on scooter behind the cow

Monk at temple

Nuns outside the shops

Even nuns need shoes repaired

On our trip to Laos in 2010, we observed the ritual of Buddhist monks with their begging bowls going through the town early in the morning asking for food. Tibetan monks don’t do this. We did observe one Indian monk (dressed in the same robes as the Tibetans) begging; he stood outside the tea shop and café where we were having our tea and the shop manager gave him a few coins.

The weekend we were there was Dussehra, the biggest holiday weekend of the year in India (according to our price-gouging hotelier), and the streets were filled with holidaying families and groups of young friends, mostly from Punjab, the neighboring state. The narrow one-way streets pulsed with small cars and large SUVs, monks and motorbikes, donkeys, dogs and cows, locals and tourists, all scrambling for space between the street vendors on both sides selling fruits, vegetables, cooked food and Tibetan souvenirs. In short, it was mayhem, especially closer to the main square, where six (narrow) roads converged.

Sharing the road

Narrow streets

Sharing the road

Holiday-makers from Punjab inundated the town for Dussehra

Sharing the road

Holiday-makers

Sharing the road

The town is very cosmopolitan. In two days, we sampled the Korean-owned vegetarian Peace Café, Jimmy’s Italian Kitchen (amazingly fresh and tasty tomato soup), and a Japanese-run tea shop. To our regret, the vegetarian Japanese restaurant was closed both days we were there.

Art is on walls everywhere, from the simplest sign to the most complex murals.

Tibet Ink Tattoo Parlor

Sign outside Japanese-run tea shop

Korean-owned vegetarian Peace Cafe

We visited the main temple complex of the Dalai Lama (no photography allowed) and observed that Tibetan Buddhism borrows a fair amount of Hindu-style mythology, such as thousand-armed deities and sages with miraculous powers who save kingdoms. The temple idols are dressed in fine robes and at their feet are packaged offerings of milk, chocolate, crackers, honey and various other goodies one imagines a deity might enjoy. They apparently like the same stuff we do. The Buddha is given pride of place in the center and is raised far above the other idols. Pilgrims came and touched their forehead to the wooden pedestal on which he sat, and the paint was worn through by the oil from so many heads. (Where does the paint go? You don’t see paint on anyone’s forehead and yet the paint definitely wears away.)

The complex (indeed, the entire town) was preparing for the Dalai Lama’s 3-day teaching to start the next day. Inside the temple, right in front of where the DL himself would sit was the section marked VIP. Large film cameras pointed to his chair. Just outside the temple, nestling up to the walls on three sides was a section reserved for “Taiwanese group.” Extending outward from there all the way to the railings were sections reserved for various groups, with an occasional single cushion with a sheet of paper taped to it marked with a handwritten name, such as “Margaret. Do not remove.” The courtyard on the ground floor under the temple was empty now, but the next day it would be filled with people who had come from far to hear His Holiness dispense wisdom for a modern age. They would have to bring their own cushions, and they would likely be waiting in line for several hours beforehand.

The road connecting the temple to the town’s main square (called, sensibly, Temple Road) is lined with street vendors all selling the same thing: jewelry, clothing and Tibetan paraphernalia (singing bowls, prayer flags, religious statues). We opted to buy from a charity shop supporting Tibetan refugee children, and then got sidetracked by a small jewelry store whose Kashmiri owner brought out endless stores of rings, pendants and necklaces for us to browse. At one point, he left his shop and went to get something, leaving us unattended in his store, with all his wares out. We noticed this in the tiny Japanese tea shop as well, where the manager left us to sip our tea in the middle of all her goods. There’s a high degree of trust, perhaps because the Buddhist philosophy is based on detachment.

In keeping with my consumerist American attachment to material goods, we racked up quite a bit of merchandise in a few hours: rings, Tibetan stoles, shirt, singing bowl and cushions (for those Hollywood Bowl concerts!) and organic Himalayan incense.

We found Mcclo to be a sweet little town and one we fear will soon be even more over-developed. At least a dozen more hotels are under construction, and Marina, of course, stopped to comment on and photograph construction methods (plastering with a piece of paper instead of a trowel, improperly blended mortar, insufficient support, etc.) We also observed that, throughout India, men work in salons doing manicures, pedicures and shampoos, while women work on the streets, carrying baskets of sand and stones on their head to build India.

Chain of women getting sand to construction site

Women hauling gravel to construction site

Cows basking in morning sunshine

Tibetan vendors exchanging gossip

Fruit vendor enjoying a tea break

Tibetan vendor plaiting her hair

Sunrise over McCleod Ganj

Sunset

Wagah Border

2014-10-07T01:03:00.000-04:00

India Trip 2014

Wagah Border

One of the organized excursions as part of the anniversary celebrations was a visit to the Wagah border between India and Pakistan, where a ceremony occurs just before sunset every day. The border at Wagah consists of two gates facing each other, one opening into India, and the other into Pakistan, with border security forces on each side. Observers who attend the ceremony sit in bleachers in their respective country. I’m not sure if this was just the day we were there, but India’s bleachers were packed to capacity, whereas the Pakistan side was a lot thinner.

While the crowd assembles and finds their seats, speakers blast patriotic songs into the throng, loud enough to drown out the songs being broadcast on the other side of the gate. Volunteers from the crowd run up and down with flags, stirring up the crowd. Patriotism too is a kind of religion, and it has its own rituals.

The ceremony consists of each country’s soldiers on their respective sides doing a strange orchestrated aggressive speed walk towards their gates, kicking up their legs when they arrive at the gate, raising their arms in triumph, and then, at least on the India side, adjusting their turbans. Here's a link to the whole ceremony.

Volunteers run with flags before the ceremony

India's Border

Pakistani bleachers - men's side

Pakistani bleachers - women's side

India bleachers - men and women together

Sunset over Pakistan

Indian soldiers prior to ceremony

Two women start off the ceremony

Speed March Toward Gate

Pakistani and Indian soldiers tell each other what they think of each other

Urdu for "Don't mess with me!"

The all important head gear adjustment

Golden Temple, Amritsar

2014-10-06T14:30:00.001-04:00

Visit to India (2014)

Golden Temple, Amritsar -- Sept 30 to Oct 3

On our first visit to the Golden Temple (Harmandir Sahib) in Amritsar, spiritual home of the Sikhs, we were blessed to be part of a group celebrating the 50th anniversary of one of my father's first cousins and his wife. As devout Sikhs, they wanted to share their spiritual passion with family and friends, and they succeeded.

Golden Temple

Masses of pilgrims queued every day to enter the inner sanctum, the Golden Temple itself, in nearly silent and unwavering devotion. One old woman, bent double, made her way slowly along the marble path, holding on to the gold balusters for support with one hand and her walking stick with the other. Her back was horizontal, parallel to the floor, and I wondered how many years it had been since she had been able to see anything other than the ground in front of her. It was a sad sight, and yet she probably felt full of hope and anticipation as she endured long, painful minutes to be able finally to commune with her God in what for her is the most holy of holies.

Golden Temple queue

Pilgrims queueing to get in to inner sanctum

A few of us went back to the Temple at 4am the next morning to see the ceremonial procession of the Guru Granth Sahib, the Sikh holy book, being taken from its nightly resting place into the Harmandir Sahib (the formal name of the Golden Temple). Outside the temple complex, pilgrims lay curled asleep in rough blankets on the hard marble floor. Inside the complex, several Sikh men surrounded the resting place of the holy book, standing like guardians of the faith. Even in repose, one can sense the warrior within, a quality for which Sikhs are most stereotyped. Stereotypes often arise out of a kernel of truth, and it is telling that one of the central tenets of the faith is that men carry swords known as kirpans. Daggers and swords were everywhere evident in the temple complex, as were long flowing beards.

Guardians of the Faith

Guru Granth Sabib being "awoken" at 5am

Guru Granth Sahib being carried to Golden Temple

A little daily grooming

Before entering the complex, you have to cover your head and remove your shoes. One has to dip one’s feet in a shallow pool of water before entering, and then step onto wet rubber or jute mats to avoid slipping on the marble. On crowded mornings, the damp mats can be smelt as you approach the entrance, and dipping your feet in water that several hundred people have just used is not for the faint of heart. These damp, sticky jute mats line the main paths throughout the complex, but fortunately, there’s ample marble to walk on. Until you approach the langar area, where food is prepared and served. Outside the dining hall, dozens of volunteers (men and women) sit on the floor peeling vast quantities of garlic, and sticky jute mats and red rubber mats cover the marble. Stepping on garlic peels and unknown substances was unavoidable. (Fortunately, I never had to use the bathroom while at the temple; I shudder to think what it must be like to walk barefoot into a public bathroom in India.)

You can find the langar area by following the noise. Not voices, but a wall of continuous deafening sound in stark contrast to the serenity of the temple. Dirty thalis (steel food plates) are handed to a male volunteer, the first in a chain of men that starts outside the dining hall and ends up near the washing area. They toss the thalis along the line, and when the plates arrive at their final destination and bang and clang together to be cleaned and stacked for re-use, the loud noise of metal on metal can sometimes be heard on the other side of the temple complex.

The Sikh place of worship is known as a gurudwara, and every gurudwara the world over serves a simple but tasty vegetarian meal known as langar, consisting of rice, roti, dal, curried vegetable and yogurt, offered to pilgrims for free. The food is donated and prepared by volunteers, and the Golden Temple langar of rice, dhal and sabji was tastier than the sumptuous buffets at the hotel. And yet, even amidst this cacophony, the volunteers appear to work with devotion. Click here to see a beautifully shot (short) video by someone else of the langar at the Golden Temple, from cooking to serving to washing.

Religious ritual is an arbitrary thing, In Sikhism, the head must be covered. In Christianity, hats must be removed. In Judaism, a specific type of headgear is worn. But there is nothing arbitrary about the true feeling of faith. Observing rituals does not lead to faith; it is a feeling that must be actively cultivated, and that takes time and trust. I reconnect with my own faith whenever I find myself in a place where other people of faith are gathered to worship. Many people are there simply for the relief of ritual, but most who have taken the time to travel to a place of pilgrimage do so out of reverence. This reverence permeates the air, and if you are open to it, re-awakens your own faith. I feel privileged to have visited the Golden Temple, and I recommend it to anyone with an interest in religion or spirituality.

Minarets at entrance of Golden Temple complex

Pilgrims in quiet early morning reflection

Yours truly and Marina -- Golden Temple sunrise

Marveling at Golden Temple

Sunset

2013-05-30T07:08:00.000-04:00

Cross Country Trip Day 21

Atlanta, Georgia to Miami Beach, Florida

Our great adventure concluded three weeks and 3,931 miles after we started, as the steady drumbeat of work called us back to Miami Beach. What I learned from this trip was that before we settle down and find the ranch of our dreams, we will take six months to explore more of America in an RV (camper, for you non-Americans).

And now, it's time to say good-bye temporarily, till our next great adventure, when I may resume this blog. Thank you, dear reader, for sticking around. Au revoir. . . until next time!

Sunset over Georgia fields

Diets and Houses

2013-05-27T00:24:00.001-04:00

Cross Country Trip, Days 19 and 20

Atlanta, Georgia

On our way to Atlanta on Day 19 of our trip, we stopped at a little town near Augusta called Martinez to stock up on groceries at EarthFare (which you may remember from this post). Atlanta has three Whole Foods but none of them carry Rudi's organic spelt English muffins, and this, my dear friends, has become a necessity for me. (Who among you ever imagined you would get to know my breakfast habits on this trip? Who among you cares?) How odd that a natural foods market was in the middle of this tiny town, and how fortunate that they had what we wanted.

This would be the biggest city we would visit on our trip, and we could tell from the volume of cars on the road as we approached Atlanta. The metropolitan area is home to almost 5.5 million people (9th largest in the US) and it boasts a $270 billion (billion with a b) economy (6th in the country, 15th among world cities).

Atlanta is a treasure of a city, cosmopolitan and yet manageable, hip with traditional values, and so au courant that the menu at the Urban Pl8 restaurant offers paleo options in addition to vegan and gluten-free. What is paleo, you might ask? I did the asking for you. It means a diet without grains and consists of foods that our hunter-gatherer ancestors ate during the Stone Age. Higher in protein and fiber, minimal carbs and high-glycemic foods. Frankly, the diet seems to be skewed towards intake of greater animal fat, and directly contradicts the results of the China Study, which advocates a more plant-based diet. (Who among you would have thought that a journal of a cross-country road trip would lead you to dietary and food analysis? Who among you cares?)

We toured some of the residential streets with grand homes, exemplars of Southern grace and elegance. There's a lot of neoclassical architecture with Doric columns, entry stairs and porticos and windows with muntins (rather than the single panes of glass typical of modern architecture), like this:

The one below was my favorite. I could totally see it in L.A. on about 20 acres of land with stables, an art studio, organic vegetable garden and a long driveway with an entry gate that reads B-B Stables.

The beauty of this particular neighborhood is that it's practically forested and yet steps away from the hustle of the City.

We stopped in for a Sunday morning dose of spirituality at the local chapter of Centers for Spiritual Living, held at the spectacularly renovated Academy of Medicine, which is listed on the National Register of Historic Places and features the chandelier used in Gone with the Wind.

If you're a fan of neoclassical architecture and would like to see more detailed photos of the lovely interior, click here.

Lunch was at J. Thomas, a quirky and vegan-friendly place with an ambitious and creative menu that delivers on taste.

After lunch, we ambushed a Ford Thunderbird in the parking lot.

Atlanta has a vibrant film industry and is often called the Hollywood of the South. We hit up a place called Eclecticia (or something like that) which rents and sells film props and other tchotchkes. Nothing worth dropping any coin on but Marina made a couple of new friends.

South Carolina Sky

2013-05-26T16:47:00.000-04:00

Cross Country Trip, Days 16-18

Florence, South Carolina

The first time I felt like I was in the South proper was when we hit South Carolina's back-country roads, lined with old wooden houses and people rocking on their porches watching the cars go by. Everything looked different. The topography was flatter, the clouds seemed low enough to touch, the blue of the sky much brighter.

I can't say I loved South Carolina. Finding decent vegan food was challenging in Florence, a small but spread out town of 30,000. The only reason we stopped here was to see family. Two of my twenty-two (yes, 22) first cousins live here and between the two of them they have 8 beautiful intelligent children whom I can never get enough of. (Family is probably the only reason to visit South Carolina. The state is still flying the Confederate flag (the flag of the Southern states which attempted to break away from the USA) atop its capitol building. The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People continues to boycott the state for this.)

There wasn't much to do in Florence -- the cemetery takes top honors on TripAdvisor as the number one attraction, and the raceway is second, neither of which we visited. There's a War Between the States Museum, which is only open Wednesdays and Saturdays, so we had to miss it. I don't think we missed much because it's mostly a display of Civil War weaponry. The website promises that employees will help you find your Confederate ancestor, and I'm pretty sure I don't have any since we didn't arrive in America until 1981. I did find their voicemail kind of cute, and you might too.

While exploring the downtown area, which is undergoing a revival (for the last 10 years or so, apparently), we stumbled upon a well-dressed gentleman who cleans windows. Unfortunately, he didn't speak much English so I couldn't find out his story but he's been a fixture of Florence for at least as long as the City has been trying to revive the mostly deserted downtown. He might have been the inspiration for the mural outside the coffee shop whose windows he was cleaning. Whatever his story, he's one cool cat.

The New South

2013-05-23T13:21:00.000-04:00

Cross-Country Trip, Day 15

Lake James, North Carolina to Florence, South Carolina
(with stops in Hickory and Winston-Salem)

If you find yourself in North Carolina and in need of a snazzy European haircut, go and see Ronnie Major at Le Grande Salon in Hickory, NC.

I would never have thought that, from this small town of 40,000 people nestled in the Carolinas, Marina could emerge with the most stylish haircut she's had in years. That's due to Ronnie's skill and talent as a hair designer but it also made me question my pre-conceived notions about this whole region.

Like a lot of Americans, I thought of the South as a conservative, backward place without much respect for people of color, gays, atheists or progressive thought of any kind. Highway 10, which runs along the southern part of America, is the shortest route to Miami, but it would have taken us close to the heart of the Deep South -- southern Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, the Florida panhandle. The Ku Klux Klan flourished in these places and vigilante mob lynchings of black men was a way of life. Remnants of that thinking still color these towns and their people, and the Confederate flag, representing the union of Southern states who sought to break away from the USA, is still flown from the dome of the capitol building in South Carolina.

The South's claimed "constitutional right" to treat people as property (and preserve their economic base of cotton) was the reason for the long and bloody American Civil War, which lasted four years and took 600,000 American lives. The real issue was states' rights, i.e., the right of the federal government to create laws that trump any individual state's laws. This fundamental philosophical debate continues today and it's this battle over who has the right to legislate over cultural matters that creates the notion of two Americas, in my opinion. Every time the federal government seeks to legislate on cultural matters such as gun control, abortion and gay marriage, a handful of die-hard backward Congressmen (and women), usually from the South, cry foul and claim for their individual states the right to pass laws on those issues.

But as I learned today, there's an Old South and a New South. Whatever that term may have meant in the past, today the New South stands for a more modern economy and way of thinking. Health food stores and vegetarian menu options are part of the New South. So are European haircuts and gay pride parades (Hickory's 4th annual is coming up this year). The university towns are full of bookstores and cafes and wine bars and (somewhat) progressive thinking. All this is what we've encountered on our trip along Interstate 40, a belt of highway running (approximately) through the lower third of the country.

I've been pleasantly surprised at the non-hostility of gas station cashiers and hotels and the helpfulness of staff at restaurants and shops. I chalked it up to being in big cities, but Fort Smith is a small town and virtually everyone we met (hotel staff, shopkeepers, museum volunteers, meter maid, restaurant staff) were all very helpful and friendly. This must be the New South.

And a good example of it is the historic arts district in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, where we made an impromptu stop for lunch yesterday with friends we just found out/remembered were living there. We ate at a restaurant called Sweet Potatoes (well shut my mouth!!) owned by two black lesbians. How's that for the New South! And yes, the parenthetical and exclamation marks are all part of the name --see the sign below.

And that was our last stop on I-40. Florence, South Carolina is only a 3-hour drive from Winston-Salem, and the most direct route takes you on the 38, a real back-country road through what is most certainly the old South. We lost cell phone service and I felt the same anxiety going through Texas. Will we get stopped because we have a rainbow sticker on the truck and California license plates? Will the police or the locals drag us out of the car and beat us up because they don't like Marina's British accent? We stopped at a gas station, and I walked into the shop with trepidation to see if they had SmartWater (even though the stupid water costs less). Then I saw the man behind the counter and instantly relaxed. Of course! He's Indian (dot, not a feather). My peeps! They own the gas stations and the hotels and where there's an Indian hotelier, there's sure to be an Indian restaurateur (the hotelier's brother-in-law or second cousin once removed), so even in the South, I know I can always fill up with gas and food and find a bed for the night. Ha! Take that, Klansmen! You may make people run but we make the economy run. Indians are the new black. Wait, that didn't come out right. What I meant to say was Indians are the New South.

On our way to Florence, we passed through Bennettsville, a tired town that looked inhabited only by cars. The downtown is full of lovely but empty brick buildings. Land is probably dirt cheap. For a brief second, I thought about buying up some of the buildings and neighboring land, creating a development for progressive people from the north who want a better quality of life, opening up art galleries and restaurants downtown, et voila!, creating a little Santa Fe or Asheville. But by the time we got to the on-ramp for the freeway, that dream had collapsed in a shudder of construction nightmares, zoning codes, neighbor disputes, nasty battles with governmental authorities, and a general sense of weariness. It's good to have ideas, and some ideas are best left unexecuted. But in case anyone reading this blog has a bunch of money and about 5 to 10 years lying around, there's an opportunity for you to shape and mold your own little town in Bennettsville, South Carolina.

Lake James, North Carolina

2013-05-22T01:53:00.000-04:00

Cross-Country Trip, Day 14

Lake James, North Carolina

We spent the day at Burt's amazing waterfront house on Lake James, a body of water 15 miles long. Here's the view from our guest room. That's Burt's private dock in the foreground, and his boat peeking out from under it.

He took us out on his little speedboat for a spin and a swim, and then we lazed on the dock with a picnic of all our goodies from Earth Fare. The water was clear, cold and invigorating! I'll let the pictures tell the rest of the story.

Is there anything better after a day of cold swimming than a hot steam and shower, followed by a delicious dinner and wine with friends? Marina made red chard and mushroom miso soup, spinach and kale salad with golden beets, and tempeh in tomato sauce, and then we ended this lush day with chocolate walnut brownie ice cream made from coconut milk. They say there's a big difference between pleasure and joy but today those two blended beautifully. I was reminded once again that one of the greatest blessings in life is happy time spent with good friends (and great food and wine helps too!). I met Burt when he and I were lawyers at the same firm. He's the smartest guy I know, and an amazing friend. He introduced me to a way of thinking that changed my life forever and I will always be grateful. Thank you, Burt, for a wonderful time in Asheville and for all you've taught me.

Santa Fe of the East

2013-05-22T01:12:00.005-04:00

Cross-Country Trip, Day 13

Asheville, North Carolina

Asheville is known as the Oasis of the South or the Santa Fe of the East. Downtown is a collection of restaurants that hold their own against L.A.'s best, live music venues, and shops owned and loved by locals.

Photograph by Lindsey O'Hare

Photograph by Jason Frank Rothenberg

The town is a haven for New-Agers, who believe that the magnetic ley lines of the Earth intersect here (or something like that) and/or that the Blue Ridge and Smoky mountain ranges in which Asheville is cradled provide a very nurturing energy and/or that the town is sitting on trillions of tons of quartz. Personally, I think they all come here for the curried almond pate at Earth Fare. I mean, that's the kind of thing that would draw me to a place.

Asheville is also home to a thriving and entrepreneurial gay community, which owns a lot of local businesses. One of the country's largest remaining independent bookshops (and one of my favorite hang-outs when I used to frequent Asheville), Malaprop's, is located here. Founded by two women, this is an important place, not just in Asheville, but as a beacon for independent retailing, and the founder's story of why she started the store and how they've managed to stick around for 30 years is short, inspiring and worth reading.

We spent the morning puttering around the shops on Lexington Avenue and Battery Park Lane (there's a Broadway street and a Flatiron building too -- Asheville seems to have a bit of a New York complex) and each one was . . . adorable. There's no other word for it. Every store seems to be incredibly well curated no matter whether it's selling rare jazz and funk CDs and records, artisan-created jewelry, vintage dresses and beaded skullcaps from the 1920s, hand-made leather-bound Italian writing journals, or every variety of incense and crystal known to mankind. Then there are the street vendors making and selling jewelry, bottle openers out of used horseshoes, string instruments that look like ukuleles and miniature guitars, hand puppets from recycled fabric, the list goes on and on and on. Just as everyone in LA is a screen-writer (or an actor), everyone in Asheville is an artist. If you like beautiful things, you'll find it easy to shop here.

Click the picture and read the poem

Dinner was at Rezaz, another long-standing and outstanding local restaurant, this one serving a fusion of Mediterranean and European food. The chef accommodated our vegan requirements graciously and deliciously, and we chatted with old friends who had all gravitated to Asheville from elsewhere as Burt continued his mission of convincing us to move here. My only regret as we downed a few bottles of Rioja was that we wouldn't be in town longer to enjoy more of their company and Asheville's amazing food.

Water, Water Everywhere

2013-05-21T23:54:00.001-04:00

Cross-Country Trip, Day 12

Nashville, TN to Asheville, North Carolina

We had miserable weather on our way out of Nashville, and Marina's driving was heroic.

When we finally got away from the rain, the Blue Ridge Mountains rose like temptresses, drawing us closer to one of our favorite places in the world, Asheville, North Carolina.

About 10 years ago, we shopped real estate in Asheville in a serious way. We were all set to move here and set up ranch with horses, goats, chickens and ducks, but as often happens, life took a different turn and set us down in Los Angeles instead.

Our first stop this time was for groceries at Earth Fare and I felt like we were back in LA again, with all the beautiful organic fruits and vegetables from California, except that I had sticker shock when we were rung up at the cash register. Not counting the wine and beer, we spent close to $100 for a couple bags of produce and packaged goods. It turned out to be worth every penny because we thoroughly enjoyed our picnic of curried almond pate, untuna vegan salad, marcona almonds, olives and black sesame seed brown rice crackers. But I'm scooping myself. That picnic came two days later, at the Lake.

After days of wandering through Texas and Arkansas and Oklahoma, it was good to be wandering the food aisles of a decent supermarket with my people again -- people who enjoyed eating healthy food and didn't mind paying an arm and a leg for it. Now that's California! But wait . . . we weren't in California, we were in Asheville.

We stayed with one of my dearest friends, Burt, whom I've known for almost 25 years. Here's the view from his pied-a-terre in Asheville.

After a bit of catching up with Burt and meeting his new beau, Ronnie (the epitome of a Southern gentleman!), we went to dinner at Mela, an Indian restaurant that does a terrific job combining traditional dishes with Western elements, such as tandoori shrimp on a Caesar salad. Of course we stuck to the tried and true veg thali, which was pretty good.

Southern Girls

2013-05-19T00:05:00.000-04:00

Cross-Country Trip, Day 11

Nashville, Tennessee

Southern girls are wild. Strip-tease, strapless, down-on-your-knees, dirty dancing wild. There's a certain kind of Southern girl -- long blonde hair, pretty, feminine, demure and polite with elders. Then they go drinking. They toss back beers and cocktails, toss their heads, and wrap their arms around young good-looking jocks. They get up on stage and dance, they dance seductively with boys, and with other girls. They display their sexuality.

A bachelorette party was under way at the Big Bang Dueling Pianos when we went in. Southern girls with pretty blonde tresses in short dresses. The one in white raised her arms, stood up to dance, bloomed in the attention of the others. You could tell she was itching to get up on the stage with the young men playing the two baby grand pianos. She sidled up to the security guard on one side of the stage, then the other. Her arm wrapped around his shoulder, her hand on his pecs, as she whispered to him. A white woman seducing a black man in the South. It was an odd sight. Americans are fed a kind of mythology of the South, of the segregated (why not call it dis-integrated?) Jim Crow years, lynchings and injustice. This woman and this man didn't make me nervous, not the way all that police presence in Memphis made me nervous, but I wondered whether there was some instinctive primeval twitch in the big burly white men in the room.

The handsome buff piano player rebuffed her attentions, but eventually, she got her way. A rap singer came on stage to sing Gold Digger by Kanye West and the blonde woman was revealed as the bachelorette, due to be married shortly. She got up on stage and mouthed the lyrics to the song, dancing with abandon, sticking her butt out in the audience and gyrating, leaning against the piano, prancing across the stage. It was the moment she had been waiting for all night, and she seized it.

The crowd was electrified. The song itself was so unlike the pop and rock that came before (and after), and to have one of their own entertaining them brought them to their feet. A young man flung dollar bills at the girl, who danced on, basking in the glow of our attention.

The song ended, she hugged the singer, the crowd burst into applause, and the evening continued, changed.

Parallel Lives

2013-05-18T18:47:00.001-04:00

Cross-Country Trip, Day 10

Memphis, TN to Nashville, TN

Arkansas and Tennessee are both very wooded, with trees hemming the highway. The green forests of the East probably support a lot more life, but it's the West that I prefer, with its wide open spaces and huge rock mountains. We did see quite a few large birds as we drove through Tennessee. A hawk (could have been a sparrow hawk) dove down right in front of our truck (as we were going 70 miles an hour) and spread its wings, as it nabbed its prey in the strip of median separating the highway lanes. Every so often, lone hawks circled above, and we managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of a large one perched on a high branch of one of the pines lining the highway. Even at 70 mph, it was easy to see its light tan chest and beautiful dark speckled wings.

Marina and I played a little game to while away the drive. It's called parallel lives. What alternate career paths could we have taken? I chose geologist, archaeologist, nuclear physicist, actor, comedian, entertainer . . . . She chose airline pilot, engineer or detective. It's like having the ingredients for a dish: tomato, onion, cilantro, pepper, salt, and some random vegetables. You could make so many different things from those basic ingredients -- depending on the spices you use, it could be Indian, Spanish, Russian, Italian. That's how it is with people. We have the same basic ingredients, but what makes us decide to pursue one path over another, to choose a respectable profession instead of the life of an artist, to become a plumber instead of a musician? The desire to make a "good living." For how long has "good living" meant money instead of soul satisfaction? It's hard to choose the road less taken. The encouragement and support of our families certainly helps. But unless we have a burning desire to create, to live a life that's different from what's been chosen for us, it's much easier to go with the flow and do what the society we live in thinks is acceptable. I guess these musing are remnants of the night before at Beale Street when I was inspired by the singer and the young dancer pursuing their passions. But who can say what they are feeling? Maybe the singer looks down on the crowd night after night, urging people to show love to the band by putting cash in the tip jar or buy their CDs, and maybe she thinks, "I'm so tired of this. I wish I had gone into real estate instead."

And now for something totally different. Here's a little sound relief from all the writing. (Thanks to my friend Parind for the tip on uploading audio. He has a great website for all things travel: Travel on the Dollar.)