Without Reservations

Kolkata -> Bangkok

Thai Air flight 341 arrived without incident, other than some turbulence on the way out of Indian airspace. Seemed appropriate, almost.

At the Kolkata airport, ground services for Thai Air are handled by Indian Airlines, which makes for some dissonance once you're airborne. The flight crew was warm and friendly, and the plane smelled of flowers I couldn't name.

Before departing, I took notice of an airport cop who swaggered around the terminal with a sense of ownership, a carbine slung over his shoulder. I had already placed my order for chai when he muscled in front of me to get his complimentary cup, not that he needed to assert himself -- he had firepower and authority. I was armed with a boarding pass and some airport pulp.

In an instant, I recalled the stock image of a burly NYC policeman polishing a Red Delicious on his blue sleeve, nodding at a storekeeper with a look that sought neither permission or forgiveness. Position begets privilege, whether it's Kolkata or the Lower East Side.

Our flight was called at 0200, and people stormed the gate, as is the fashion. It's a failure on my part that I can't wrap my head around the custom of jostling, shoving and pushing to get ahead of the next person whenever there's a queue longer than five people. And for a plane with assigned seats, no less.

Liz reminds me that we were indoctrinated as children to "wait our turn," and it's hard for me to turn that off. The impulse to overtake is a dynamic I observed nearly everywhere in India -- in queues, on the road -- even when entering and exiting elevators.

I had a unique experience at the post office our last day in India when sending more gifts home. I stepped into the short foreign post line, but was told by an cheery middle-aged fellow in front of me that the queue was closed and he was last. I glanced at the line he directed me to: thirty people deep.

Not sure why, but I decided to stand my ground, just in case I could wheedle the (as ever) grumpy postal worker into accepting a neatly sewn parcel bound for Arizona, complete with melted plastic seals on every seam.

As it turned out, I had nothing to worry about. As soon as it was his turn, the man in front of me asked/told the clerk to process my transaction, despite the "closed" sign at his station. There was some animated back and forth, but I caught the phrase "foreign national" in there somewhere.

I thanked him graciously, and he asked where I was from. He asked how far San Francisco is from Los Angeles, and I told him the distance, trying and failing to convert 450 miles into kilometers for his benefit.

"Los Angeles. Hollywood!" He said.

I smiled. "Hollywood, very glamorous -- but I got a taste of your Bollywood. In Mumbai, they were shooting a movie in our hotel lobby."

"I really like Steven Seagal," he said.

I gave him a head-bob and asked who was more popular in India, Seagal, or Stallone.

"Oh, Seagal, definitely!" he replied.

"Did you know he's a Buddhist? Seems rather at odds with his movies -- ahimsa, you know?"

We shared a hearty, spontaneous laugh, and I was aware that he was taking my measure. As it turned out, we had much to talk about: we agreed that Seagal's early films were his best, and that Robert Ludlum is a much better storyteller than Tom Clancy.

I joined Liz outside on the steps of the Victorian GPO -- she was enjoying a cold Thums Up, seemingly obvlious to the heavy stares of men walking past.

My previous entry described most of our last day in Kolkata. Somewhere between the 'net cafe and the airport, I lost my Columbia travel hat. Once I'd realized that it was indeed gone, it took just a half-second to accept it, move on, and return to my paperback. The old me would have gnashed his teeth over the loss, even if only for a moment.

Not a lot to say about Bangkok so far. We checked into our hotel at about 0830 and slept most of the day, exhausted from the night's travails. On the drive in from the airport, I stared out the window, straining for a glimpse of shanties or slums, but none were to be found.

Thailand enjoyed riotous economic growth in the nineties, and this city shows it. I saw bright and shiny housing developments near the airport, with the promise of more to come. Every car on the toll road was shiny and new, and a plethora of highway police were there to maintain order. For the first time since leaving California, I actually saw someone receive a traffic citation.

We'll change hotels tomorrow so we can be closer to the old city center and wander through temples and markets. In the evening, I expect we'll hit a few bars after a restaurant or two. I'm looking forward to urban explorations, but I'm more eager to travel south for some R&R in Phuket, Phi Phi, and thereabouts.

Liz wasn't feeling 100% tonight, so I walked down the road to a 7-11 for tea and things. On my way back to the room, I declined the offer of two taxis and a procurer. I was polite to each entrepreneur -- the last one wanted to leave me with a four-color brochure for his, ah, services.

For the first time while traveling, I'm actually uncomfortable walking around without Liz. I'd hate for anyone to peg me as one of the swinish Westerners who come here to enjoy the booming sex trade. On my way to the hotel's business center and the broadband connection herein, I passed a Midwestern-looking dude who dangled a petite, smiling woman on each arm.

< judgement>Sex work is coercive by nature. If it's such a great way to make a living, why don't pimps recruit at Radcliffe or Bryn Mawr on Career Day? If someone trades their body for money, it's almost always because they don't have many good options.< /judgement>

I don't blame these women, but I do look dimly upon the Americans, Brits and Aussies who come here to exchange bhats for bodily fluids. When I passed Cornfed and his two dates, I resisted the urge to wipe the smirk off his face by saying, "Yeah, but you're paying for it, asshole."

He wouldn't have cared, I'm sure.

Oh, Calcutta. (last stop in India)

We arrived Monday afternoon after taking an overnight train from New Delhi.

If you find yourself in this country, and you have the opportunity to journey on the rails, do so. As far as I can tell, it's just about the only benefit of British colonialism. But hey, I'm just a visitor here.

Be prepared for serious confusion when it comes to finding your platform and your compartment. Firsthand experience indicates that a porter will have no karma issues about directing you to the wrong platform if you don't accept the offer of his services.

As it was, we had to find our car (out of at least twenty) and then locate our names on the passenger list for that car. Once we'd done so, then we were permitted to enter our berth -- compartment B on car 56. Class 1A, which means fold-down beds, air conditioning, and tip-hungry porters who have no problem calling on you at any hour to see if there's something you need.

As is our wont, we didn't have a place to lay our heads when we pulled in to Howrah station in Kolkata, and the Treo worldphone had run out of prepaid minutes, so we do what people do here: we queued up to use a public phone.

Not really a queue; more like a loose, jostling knot of people who all wanted the same thing. Rather than get into it with the two guys who cut in front of me, I waited patiently, and called my first choice from the Lonely Planet book: Hotel Fairlawn. We went outside only to find that there was a taxi strike the day we arrived, and I wondered for a moment whether we'd have to cross the bridge to Chowringhee neighborhood on foot.

Luckily for us, a taxi strike means that the drivers shroud their meters, and will drop you off within sight of your destination, but not actually at your destination. We were two blocks away, and let me reiterate again how totally excellent our Keen sport sandals are -- these Victorinox backpacks aren't bad, either.

Our hotel was a "taste of the Raj," meaning that three flavorless meals were included in the rack rate, and we were politely phoned (morning, noon, and night) to join the collegial atmosphere in the dining room.

Felt more martial than collegial -- Liz dropped in for coffee during one of her forays yesterday to the tourist office, and the restaurant manager assured her that she could have her caffeine -- after the meal.

So, she suffered through fish fingers and polite small talk. I ended up bringing her back some veg. takeout after she crashed for a few hours while I explored the neighborhood. After the first meal at the hotel (boiled taters, haricots verts and gray pot roast, I've made polite excuses.)

Calcutta has the same traffic as Delhi and just as much squalor. We haven't wandered far outside the tourist zone, so I can't say that I have any real experience of the famed slums.

Today, we had a nice lunch (why can't I get a good chicken kebob and some paneer naan in SF?!), then wandered over to a bazaar where I tasted famed Kolkata confections, bargained for a gift for my father (it's his birthday today!), as well as a few items for other people I know and love. We killed some time afterwards at a planetarium.

My dad is very much in my thoughts, since I got a message regarding an illness in our family a few days ago. The gravity of it all didn't hit me fully until I got back to the room. I perceive myself as a bit of the black sheep in the Thompson herd -- unmarried, no rocket sled on my career track, no kids.

But I've never felt closer to my father than when I spoke to him from our hotel room. He said I sounded like I was next door, but for me, the call sounded like it was being bounced off Voyager 2. I'd have to be on an Apollo mission to be any farther away from hearth and home than I am now -- check a globe if you don't believe me.

Usually, these blog entries are well-planned, edited a few times, then re-read thoughtfully, but this one's extemporanous; forgive me if this goes astray.

In fact, I'll just wrap this up with a few lines from an email I just sent my dad, who's flying East to look after his father:

Sorry I was so emotional on the phone, but the importance of family has been highlighted, underscored and writ large for me while traveling around India. Without families, many people here would be lost, forgotten, ailing, or worse, and I've seen some pretty rough lives here.

We leave for Bangkok in a few hours. I'm hoping that it'll be easier to send bits and bytes your way when we arrive there, so be patient -- there's many photos we've not yet shared.

Thanks to everyone for reading and commenting, and thank you in particular to all of the native Indians who've contacted us privately and publicly with advice and comments. In many cases, your input made a massive difference in the experience I've had in this amazing, beautiful, sometimes heartbreaking country.

Namaste.

Sure, the cows are something...

It's a drizzly afternoon in New Delhi. I'm stepping around puddles of water, mud, and human waste as I navigate the streets in the budget-hotel district near Connaught Circle -- nominally in search of a chemist's, but mostly for the chance to take a walk.

The air is cleaner today -- which doesn't mean it's actually clean. This city is grimy beyond description. People seem harder here. Life seems harder here. There are more sneers and fewer smiles -- except from the ever-present touts. (We're here in the off-season for tourists. Rickshaws outnumber potential passengers ten to one, and every hotel has a hawker out front. "Where are you from, madam? Norway? U.K.? Very nice room, single, very cheap!") We get fewer stares in Delhi, too. This city has seen everything.

A rickshaw-wallah motors beside me for a while. Makes me laugh with his patter. "Ride, madam? Very good shopping? We go for helicopter ride?" He's as bone-thin and grizzled as his peers, but his smile seems genuine, and when I laugh he laughs with me. I ask if he'll wait while "my husband" finishes at the 'net cafe, then take us to the train station. He agrees, but is gone by the time we emerge.

I'm learning to negotiate the streets in Indian cities, a little, but it's still challenging. Every tout gets a slight smile and a head-shake 'no'. Children begging get food if we have any, but no money. I'm working hard to not to let the incessant commercial offers tempt me in to putting blinders on. I refuse to stop seeing people.

Two young-teenage boys take turns peeping at me over one another's shoulders. I smile slightly and the taller one approaches. He fumbles a handshake -- left hand, oops, right hand -- and asks "how are you?" I try to ask his name but he blushes and tries to disappear behind his friend. "No English," the friend explains. They look giddy with their own daring: approaching a female farang! A blind beggar approaches, and the boys let themselves be swept away by the crowds, grinning shy goodbyes.

The days are full of moments like these. I'm scrutinized by plump matrons, and happy when I can turn stares into smiles. We're cajoled to buy this, come here, ride there. We step over human bodies everywhere -- a leper in Agra, filthy children sleeping on the train station stairs in Delhi. We see prosperous families, hip youngsters in blue jeans, beautiful women in Saris, striving single men, a small number of other western tourists. Mostly what we see -- everywhere, everywhere, everywhere -- are more people. More people in less space than this Californian could have imagined.

If you need to get through the crowds, sometimes you need to shove. "It's not personal" was the advice I read before we came here. At the train station, rushed and worried about finding the carriage that will take us to Calcutta, I take this advice to heart and start pushing. There's no malice in my pushing, and nobody reacts as though there were. As time gets tighter and we still haven't found our spot, I start thinking of the rules of the highways here -- bigger and faster wins. With my pack on, and with my Western height and American girth, I'm plenty big. I increase my speed, look determined, and make astonishing progress.

The train station is, of course, indescribably crowded. I almost take a header down a flight of stairs when something soft and heavy hits me square in the backs of the knees. A tiny old woman with a massive cloth-wrapped bundle has come up with a clever way around carrying it or hiring a porter. She simply gives her cargo a forceful shove at every landing, and the near-spherical mass tumbles down the next set of stairs.

Shoving, weaving, doubling back in search of our carriage, we see some third-class-non-AC passengers filing into their car in a surprisingly orderly line. A moment later the source of the unexpected order is revealed: a portly man with a wooden stick. He uses it to menace those who might straggle out of place. The stick isn't for show, either. More than once, we see an inattentive or overeager passenger get a vigorous thwack. Steering well clear of The Enforcer, we finally find our (comfy, air-conditioned) carriage and collapse, damp and laughing, into our berths. India reminds us, constantly, of how very fortunate we are.

Later on the train, looking out the window, Walter says something I don't catch, then something I do: "They're the only constant so far. They're everywhere, and they're beautiful."

At the moment he was talking, it turns out, about the cows. Funny thing; they're not what first came into my mind at all.

Walter gets a little metaphysical about the Taj Mahal.

Our automated wake-up call jangled at 0500 Saturday, and we were in a cab on our way to the Taj well before 7. The hotel driver agreed to meet us in three hours at the drop-off point.

Before he could even open Liz's door, we were swarmed by rickshaw-driving touts. Polluting vehicles aren't permitted within a click or two of the great mausoleum, so rickshaw-wallahs have an easy time finding clients. It was my first trip by rickshaw -- our other three-wheeled rides were by auto rickshaw.

I'd avoided them in other cities. The last time I was in a pedaled rickshaw, a bored kid was towing me and some other high school friends down a boardwalk at the Jersey Shore. His summer vacation gig was not his vocation. Hiring a well-fed American to tow you from a Nathan's Hot Dog stand to a Ferris Wheel is one thing; paying a skinny old man with a few teeth and stringy legs to take me the same distance felt like another thing altogether.

A very aggressive young man offered to be our tour guide. I resisted repeatedly, but he politely, blithely ignored my protests. He trotted along side my rickshaw, breathlessly explaining that without a guide, we'd merely be "taking a walk" around the Taj Mahal, missing out on its secrets, its essence.

Maybe I was too weary to argue, but I turned my head to make sure that Liz wasn't far behind in her rickshaw, and he clambered aboard, riding the handlebars.

Ten or so plodding minutes later, we arrived at one of the visitors' gates. The rickshaw-wallahs tried to defer payment, insisting that they'd wait for us until we came back. Unlike the U.S. Congress, Liz and I have learned that you're far better off using the "pay as you go" scheme. After much animated discussion and an intervention from our guide, we gave 100 Rs to the drivers, and they pedaled away.

"Agra-phobia" is the term Lonely Planet uses to describe the maddening phenomenon of Agra's aggressive merchants, touts and cab drivers. Everyone has a cousin with a shop; everyone can get you the best deal, everyone has an object of interest to sell that you absolutely must see.

It was worse than LP described. We were literally surrounded by folks who wanted to drag us to a store, guide us on tours, or sell us some truly crappy tchotkes that had nothing at all to do with the icon behind the fortified walls -- wooden chess sets, bamboo cobras in woven baskets, you get the idea. (It was several times worse on the walk back to the parking lot afterwards.)

We went through security (different lines for ladies and gents -- Liz's check was behind a modesty curtain, I got a not-so-gentle pat-down), and the tour began. She'd forgotten to leave her iPod back at the Hilton, so I checked it with no degree of confidence at the cloakroom for banished articles. It was given a number before being berthed with scores of confiscated cell phones, CD players and cigarettes.

If you can't bring it into a mosque, you can't bring it to the Taj, pretty much.

The guide began hastily, steering us almost immediately toward a photographer in the first courtyard who does color prints in 30 minutes. This didn't bode well.

His knowledge of the complex was about an inch deep and a mile wide. He rattled off facts I'd previously absorbed via guidebooks and Web searches. I tuned him out, despite the 475 Rs I knew I'd be slapping in his mitt later. Not that much cash, big picture, though we'd already paid Rs 500 each for entry, as well as a photography fee. Still, we didn't want to miss a thing, so off we went.

He took us through the gate into the mausoleum complex, and there it was.

We used Liz's pocket Nikon, passing it back and forth as things caught our eyes. (We'll post photos in a separate entry -- there are many for your consideration.) Most of our fellow pilgrims were Indian families on weekend holidays, but Westerners were well-represented -- the sunburnt Kiwi who looked like he'd just stowed his surfboard, three frat boys, one sweating entirely through his Villanova T-shirt, businesslike Germans, laden with cameras.

Old news: the Taj Mahal was built by Emperor Shah Jahan, who was so moved by the death of his young wife in childbirth in 1631 that he created this mausoleum as "a monument to love." Work started shortly after her death, and it wrapped up in 1653.

"Monument to love." I put that in quotes because the phrase is repeated in guidebooks, tour-booking flyers all over town, and even in the padded hotel info binder on our night stand.

Standing there at the end of the reflecting pool, the phrase struck a dissonant chord. Twenty thousand workers labored for twenty years to erect a "Monument to love?" More like ego.

Feel free to assume that I'd built the Taj up in my head so much that it could never have matched my expectations. There's some truth to that. But I also suffer from something Liz calls CEO Syndrome:

an abiding resentment of "great men" who take the credit for "getting things done," even though their only talent is that they've acquired power enough to demand the energy of people far more talented and creative than themselves.

Liz believes these people are necessary, and she's probably right. The Golden Gate Bridge would not exist if not for Joseph B. Strauss. Today, his statue stands at the south anchorage, boldly pointing north as if he'd conjured the span with a single blast from his index finger.

What you won't see is any mention of Charles Ellis, the senior, more knowledgeable engineer who knew Strauss' initial design would never work and had the stones to speak up. His insolence got him fired, but the Ellis design is the one that was realized. Engineers agree: Strauss' creative vision would likely be a pile of buckled, rusting steel at the bottom of the bay.

Lore has it that the architect who drafted the Taj's blueprints was Isa Khan, but it's not a concrete fact. There is little debate, however, that Shah Jahan had the architect's thumb lopped off so he'd never be able to create a rival or superior structure.

I've never endured CEO Syndrome to that extent -- these days, they just amputate employees' spirits.

I might have appreciated it more if each guide hadn't been reading from the same page. Hearing identical stats jawed for the gawkers -- "these flowers are made up of 64 different stones, each cut exactly to fit," -- was a phrase I heard at least three times as we circled the false tombs under the great dome.

The crowds weren't of a reflective, contemplative mind, either. The mausoleum itself was anything but somber; yelping children chasing each other, loud conversations in several tongues, and not least, the rattle and shaking of a rolling steel gate that blocks access to the actual resting place of the Shah and his bride in an antechamber below.

The gate was installed because tourists had been working precious and semi-precious stones out of the pietra dura for souvenirs -- now, they just tug and yank at the barricade so they can squeeze their heads in for an illicit peek.

Everything at the Taj is symmetrical -- as a result, everyone stands in the same spots with their cameras, straining to frame each shot perfectly. Each building, each arch, each minaret -- all has its mirror opposite. "Balance," was the word our guide used repeatedly. Perhaps so. I don't know much about these things, but in terms of craftsmanship and design, the Taj Mahal is probably one of the most perfect buildings on Earth.

The guide left us to sit on a shaded bench to sit and contemplate. Liz asked what I was feeling, and I struggled with an answer. Unlike everywhere else in India we've visited, the Taj Mahal felt antiseptic, cold.

The Taj Mahal called to me -- but it did not speak to me. I could not feel its pulse.

I was trying to formulate this thought, but then a bird crapped on my leg, and I lost the thread.

I was still considering our visit hours later, after checking out of the hotel and relaxing in the bar before our train back to New Delhi. On a friend's recommendation, I was reading Hesse's "Narcissus and Goldmund," a yellowed paperback I hadn't touched in 20 years.

Briefly, Narcissus lives the life of the mind in a cloister as a monk; Goldmund is a student who lives in a world of images, flesh, and emotion. After I finished page 183, I stopped and looked very thoughtful.

Liz looked up from her novel.

"May I read you something?" I asked. She smiled her assent.

"At this point in the novel, Goldmund is an apprentice to a master carver, and he's reflecting on art and beauty while looking into a stream."

She nodded, green eyes engaged. I cleared my throat.

"He could not understand how that which was so definite and formal could affect the soul in the same manner as that which was intangible and formless. One thing, however, did become clear to him -- why so many perfect works of art did not please him at all, why they were almost hateful and boring to him, in spite of a certain undeniable beauty.

Workshops, churches and palaces were full of these fatal works of art; he had even helped with a few himself. They were deeply disappointing because they aroused the desire for the highest and did not fulfill it. They lacked the most essential thing -- mystery. That was what dreams and truly great works of art had in common: mystery."

I've seen the Taj Mahal with these two eyes, and with the woman I love. I'm very grateful on both counts. But as my experience suggested and Hesse confirmed, there's the potential to find great beauty whenever you blink, or turn your head.

Regard a child's face, gaze into your lover's eyes, study a slice of fruit. Each is beautiful; none are perfect.

But they're all precious, and far more wondrous to me than the Taj Mahal.

Gasping in Delhi/Driving to Agra

After the machinations of the day before, we arrived at Bangalore Airport a good ninety minutes pre-flight. Deccan Air flight DN-601 was slated to leave at 5:50 a.m., so that didn't leave much time for sleep. Liz afforded me a one-hour catnap back at the hotel, as she'd been resting uncomfortably in our hotel the entire day.

At the airport, I had a vibe that we should move closer to the ticket window moments before the lights came on and the "closed" sign came down, so we were the first to receive our boarding passes.

After clearing security and waiting at the gate with our respective good books, Liz and I got into the not-so-orderly line for the people-mover that took us across the tarmac to our Airbus 320.

Air Deccan was a bargain, and it far exceeded my expectations. For example, I paid 30 Rs for a 330 ml bottle of drinking water. I think that's excessive, and I certainly wasn't expecting it.

But seriously, folks. It was a clean plane and a comfortable flight, except for the guy with the tubercular hack across the aisle. After touching down at Indira Gandhi International, I had even more sympathy for the fellow.

The air in New Delhi is very, very bad.

We left the airport at 9:02, or so the sign read. A large white cow lay regally in repose at the taxi check-out gate, which heartened me somewhat. If she could breathe here, surely I'd find a way to manage.

During the ride, I rolled down the window of our aging Ambassador cab to let in some fresh air, as it was easily in the mid-eighties. I could see a haze hovering over each block as we were bumper-to-bumper with scooters, motorcycles, autorickshaws, and various subcompacts.

Nauseated and frustrated from having to chew each breath thoroughly before swallowing, I dug out my red bandanna and held it over my nose and mouth. I caught a glimpse of myself in the rear-view mirror and put it on my lap. Toughen up, World Traveler, I chided myself.

Based on my casual observation, India's airports are semi-militarized zones. In Bangalore and Delhi, I saw scores of signs indicating officers' mess halls, military administration buildings, and so on. Going to or coming from SFO or JFK, it's a rare (and unhappy) day if you see guys standing around in full camos, an automatic carbine slung over one arm. Where I'm from, the bleakest thing you'll see near the airport is a block of strip clubs.

At the first stop light, three street children surrounded our cab. The girl on my side yanked down my window with her fingers, and I shifted my daypack to the floor. A little boy the same age worked Liz's side shoving a magazine at her, while a third went through the motions of cleaning the windshield and mirrors with a filthy rag. The light seemed interminable as we said gentle "no thank yous" time and again.

Leaning into the cab, the girl pointed to my pockets, then to her mouth. She pointed at the bandanna, then to her head. It was a very long red light, but how badly can I complain? I was being driven to an air-conditioned hotel with running water and room service. What right have I to be angry with a child, a kid who wanted something from me to make her hardscrabble existence *just* a little easier?

I remember driving into NYC on field trips as a kid and hearing schoolmates parrot the idiocy their parents taught them about the homeless people who stood and slumped on nearly every corner in the early eighties: "Ah, they're just lazy. They could work if they wanted to."

Driving into the city center, the atmosphere got even thicker, and I had a sense of apprehension I haven't felt anywhere else in India. Life seemed especially "hard," to use Liz's term. There seemed to be only a few distinct types of people on the road:

• young men and women on scooters and motorcycles
• people riding in or driving autorickshaws and automobiles
• individuals struggling with heavy loads

The people who most drew my eye fell into that last category. I was so distracted by the man riding a two-wheeled bicycle bearing an air-conditioner big enough to cool a ranch-style house that I almost missed the elephant ten feet away that was backing up a full lane of traffic.

Men driving pedaled rickshaws were moving heavy loads, but also people. I saw a family of five squeezed into the back of one human-powered conveyance, and that was not an exception.

Everyone seemed to bear their load with dignity and determination. I saw one fellow pushed a bike loaded with what must have been at least 60 1-gallon steel cans. (I counted the length, width, and depth as we crept past in traffic.) I sincerely hope they were empty, else filled with helium.

Just another Thursday morning commute?

My mood didn't brighten once we'd reached ND proper, despite the sight of chattering monkeys harassing a fruit seller, or a stoic camel towing a cart of drinking water. Even the helmeted motorcyclist who'd stopped to relieve himself from an overpass didn't bring a smirk.

Arriving at the hotel, I felt like a wanderer who'd stumbled upon an oasis. Hotel Ajanta is right in the thick of things, but stepping into its lobby, I was able to conjure up some denial. While our room was prepared, I made mental note of where I'd packed my inhaler. The manager brought us into the quiet travel booking office to help us iron out a few things for the trip to Agra after we told him our plans.

"You realize, the Taj Mahal is closed on Fridays."

There was a pregnant pause while Liz and I looked at each other.

Among other things, he also explained that the train returning us to New Delhi for our overnight to Kolkata on Sunday would not return us in time. We altered plans to come back on Saturday, meaning another day spent there. He arranged for the trains to Agra and back and said the tix would arrive later in the day. Plans locked in, we went to our room, ordered a light breakfast and took some rest.

Liz, still on the mend, watched the last three episodes of season 3 of "24" while I slept. For 19 hours.

She woke me at 6:30 this morning. "The train!"

I splashed water on my face, threw on clothes and dashed downstairs to checkout. Once at reception, I looked at our tickets. The Shatabdi Express departed at 0600. Sigh.

The manager arranged a driver, adding the cost to our bill. With a twinge of regret in his voice, he explained that drivers always charge two ways for a trip to Agra, even if you're only going one way. He kept his lips from quavering when he informed us that our unused train tickets were non-refundable.

The drive to Agra wasn't unpleasant. We had air-con, and a very good driver, Puram, who hails from Nepal but moved to Delhi 20 years ago. We passed from small town to medium-small town, with long, dry stretches between. Every now and then, I'd see the black chimney smoke of brick foundries, but there was quite a few industrial whatnots on the Delhi - Agra highway: an oil refinery, textile factories, technical colleges.

This nation's full of contradictions, many of them visual -- like a boy pumping water for his goats -- in the shadow of a technical college for computer engineers.

We saw one bad accident on the way -- a car that'd rear-ended a lorry at high speed, much to everyone's detriment. Any injuries were hidden from my view. Also, a fist fight at the border crossing into Uttar Pradesh, but boys will be boys.

We chatted with Puram more than with past drivers. When we were swarmed by more urchins during some congestion outside Mathura, I asked him how he deals with children who beg.

"I don't give!" he said emphatically. "I love the children, but I don't give. When you give to a child who begs, they take it and buy the alcohol, or the cigarette, or something. They should be in school, not begging."

"So, all schools are free in India?" I asked.

"Yes! Anyone who want to go to school, they go. But when you give to beggar, he never stop. Never stop. They grow up - beg their whole life."

(Liz and I plan to make donations to charitable organizations. When we know which ones, we'll post the info here.)

I was impatient to arrive in Agra (for what, I don't know), so I resisted Puram's occasional points of interest along the way, such as a 15-meter high bronze Shiva. When we passed the Tomb of Akbar, he pulled into the parking area for a brief stop. Liz was interested, so we paid 110 Rs each (plus 25 for the video camera) and stepped through the magnificent gateway to the mausoleum, resisting the persistent youth who offered to guide us.

My camera's auto-focus was a little over-worked due to the exposure and density of each frame's composition. Focus on the leafy tree, or the deer gamboling beneath? Sharpen up the marble pillars, or the tourist families who keep passing into the viewfinder?

The best shots are posted here, for what they're worth:

I'm glad we stopped, since viewing Akbar the Great's final resting place brought me back into the moment, allowing me to let go of the missed train and the added expense of hiring a car.

Stopping at the tomb also answered a question that's been plaguing me: it's Liz they're staring at, for any of you keeping track at home.

Not one, but two families of Indian tourists asked her to pose with them on the plaza before the mausoleum. Not one asked me, and yet again, someone else chatted me up in Hindi, expecting a response.

"Sorry," I smiled sheepishly. "I'm an American."

"America -- great country!" he replied.

"India's a great country, too." I said. "I've been here three weeks, and I've seen so many beautiful things, and met wonderful people. I'm telling everyone I know in America that they should come here."

"India is a great country," he agreed.

I went back to the car, refreshed, despite the sticky heat. Puram called a friend to show us the Red Fort, but he never showed, so we proceeded to the Agra Trident Hilton, which is where I'm now laying across a very comfortable bed in a very clean room. Liz is reading "The Beauty Game," by Anita Anand: a monograph about how and why Indian standards of beauty have been edging westward in the last 15 years.

Tomorrow, we wake before dawn, and will take a cab to the Taj Mahal and hire an official tourist guide. I'm not bringing the video camera, since I'd have to leave it behind to enter certain structures and would rather enjoy examining the pietra dura than suffer separation anxiety.

Hopefully, our next update will include photos of a building familiar to all of you. But they'll be our photos.

Liz's eye on Bangalore

Liz is resting and hydrating for our early flight to New Delhi tomorrow, but she asked me to upload these pics snapped from our hotel's balcony.

Send her some well wishes, won't you?

A middle school with a very urban playground

Looking down Church Street

Call Center College, where "Savitas" are transformed into "Bettys."

Taj Mahal, or bust!

We realized last night that we have a little more than a week left in India -- and we haven't been to the Taj Mahal.

Call me petulant and call me parochial, but how can you travel to India and not see the Taj? for the answer, see this blog's title.

Meh. We've been toting 4 pounds of paper otherwise known as Lonely Planet: India -- and you know what's on the cover, don't you?

Before we left, my father graciously introduced Liz and I to a fellow Rotarian who'd spent a few months here. She'd hadn't visited the Taj Mahal, and she didn't seem at all disappointed.

And after taking in just a very thin slice of India, I get it.

In the last three weeks, I've dipped a toe in the Arabian Sea, been blessed by an elephant, and was expertly guided through the Caves of Elephanta and the jaw-dropping spectacle of Hampi. All extremely out of the ordinary for a fellow like myself, a person who's always had far more imagination than means.

Still and all, do any of you remember the View-Master, those totally boss stereoscopic devices? I wore out more than one View-Master, snapping endlessly through scenes from literature, 3-D animation cels of Hanna-Barbera characters and anything else I could get my hands on. The giant squid attacking the Nautilus from "20,000 Leagues Under The Sea" was a favorite.

But the disc I remember most vividly was "The Seven Wonders of the World." I now know the folks at Fisher-Price were mixing their eras, but young Walter was entirely captivated by the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Pyramids, the Colossus at Rhodes, and of course, the well-known mausoleum at Agra.

I just couldn't let it go.

We agreed that this ayem, we'd consult with a travel agent to see if making the trip from Bangalore (central, south) to Agra (north) was feasible in terms of time and Rupees.

Liz dozed off right away, but I was up with bad heartburn and a good book for a few hours longer. By the time I finally dropped off to sleep, I'd accepted that a person could come here, not see the icon that's used to sell everything from luxury hotels to basmati rice, and still have had the experience of a lifetime.

We both woke early; the car-horn/traffic whistle soundtrack hadn't yet begun, and the laughter of kids gathering outside the nearby middle school was still audible. Liz wasn't feeling well, so I headed over to the India Tourism Board office a few doors down, where a pleasant man gave me a reference to a travel agency.

I looked at the tourist register on his desk while he dug for business cards. On the two pages I scanned, not a single American. When I told him that only about 14% of us even have passports, he was genuinely shocked.

I went to the travel agent via autorickshaw, got a quote for a one-way fare (Bangalore - Delhi), and then tuk-tuk'd back here to check in on The Woman and see how she was doing. Not much better, sadly.

I ducked back into the basement Internet access point down the block, only to find that there was a steady drip from a duct in the only available space where I could plug in the iBook. I watched my power cord very carefully and kept my bandana handy to sop up any errant drops that fell on my hardware.

Here's what I accomplished:

• Two one-ways, Bangalore -> Delhi via Air Deccan, flight DN601. If all goes well, we'll be on the ground by 8:30 IST tomorrow morning.
• hotel room in New Delhi (air-con, of course. It's like 109F there!)
• hotel room in Agra (maybe when I get back, Hilton can throw me a bone for all the free promotion)
• 1AC sleeper car from New Delhi -> Kolkata
• visited my first Indian supermarket (cool!)
• did my best to make Liz comfortable

I also updated some software and emailed friends and family, and it only took me about eight hours to get everything done.

Long story, short:

we're going to see the Taj Mahal.

The world is, the world is...

Night before last, Liz and I were sipping espresso in a trendy cafe near our hotel.

The other occupants were young, cosmo Bangaloreans -- cell phones on tables, canoodling with their boy or girl, smoking Gold Flakes. The hi-fi was tuned to some album-oriented rock station with a gabby DJ.

And then, Rush's "Tom Sawyer" came on. If you're under the age of 40, you probably know the tune. Total rock anthem.

I smiled inwardly as I watched the other dudes in the room drumming their fingers, bobbing their heads to Neil Peart's driving rhythm.

I smiled outwardly when the volume was cranked to 11 during the first instrumental solo.

America's chief export is its popular culture. For most of this trip, I've grumbled about how poorly it represents us, and about how bankrupt most of it is. I felt revulsion when I saw a TV promo for the new season of "Fear Factor" when we arrived in Mumbai.

But watching a dude in Bangalore enjoy a Rush drum solo made it just a little more okay.

Who's the fairest of them all?

I expected that Liz and I would be objects of curiosity in India before we left, but I'll freely admit that I wasn't fully prepared for the scrutiny.

Sometimes, the attention we draw is so stark, it's as if someone crudely yanked the swing arm off an LP at the height of the party -- screeeitch! -- and all eyes are on us.

What surprises me is that she draws more attention than I do. At least, I think so. We should do some controls where we enter places separately and gauge reactions. Last night, when we stepped over the threshold of a restaurant a few doors down from our hotel, every head -- each waiter, busboy and patron -- rubbernecked to give us a good, long look. And then they went back to whatever they were doing.

Staring in India is not a faux pas -- if you see someone that interests you, you stare until you've seen as much as you like. There's no stigma attached to it. Liz says that meeting stares with smiles has been a good defense -- when it comes to women and children. Men don't usually get her full 100-watt smile, she says.

She's a modest dresser, and she's made every effort to avoid being provocative, unlike most Western tourists I've seen. Ameri-Euro sightseers dress for comfort in tank tops and shorts, as opposed to observing local mores regarding bare legs and arms or form-fitting clothing.

After arriving in Hospet from relatively liberal Goa, Liz put on a V-neck T-shirt for an arid afternoon's explorations. We went down to the hotel lobby to place some valuables in the locker behind the reception desk.

I secured our items and gave the padlock a tug before turning around to see a coterie of businessmen examining her like she was lunch. Without meaning to sound sexist, I didn't appreciate it. At all. At her behest, we went back to the room, where she put on a loose-fitting top with long sleeves.

She's not my property, but I don't like the staring, because it made her feel uncomfortable. That's for her to blog about.

This is mycultural bias: leering at women is a sign of disrespect. A man who focuses his gaze like a laser -- and makes certain that the "object" of interest is aware of his attention -- doesn't really like women, I think.

This behavior isn't limited to India, for certain. Men leer at women the world over. A smaller subset even act out, making smoochy noises and the like.

And before you ask -- yes, I enjoy looking at attractive women. But I'm not wolfish. Women weren't placed on this Earth for my viewing pleasure. Besides, God created Ray-Bans for a reason.

I guess that's why some cultures (not India, specifically) require that their women cover themselves, so as not to inflame male passions. Which, to me, is just another way of deflecting responsibility for one's behavior. I don't smash the display case of every freezer case to get to the Ben & Jerry's inside. If I were tempted to do so, would that mean that Safeway should keep all ice cream behind darkly tinted glass?

It's the same logic -- and neither solution makes any sense to me.

Another thing I can't wrap my mind around is the "light skin, good/dark skin, not so much" dynamic so much in evidence here.

I thought this dissonance was specific to African-American culture, but no. If you have very fair skin and somewhat European features, it's far more likely that you'll be India's candidate for Miss World, the nation's most popular actress, and have your face splashed across billboards and TV commercials.

Yes, I'm talking about Aishwarya Rai, apparently the paragon of Indian beauty. I've seen many lovely women since we arrived here, but most are closer in hue to Halle Berry than Julia Roberts. I'm reminded of a song by Public Enemy, "She Watch Channel Zero."

Of course, Rai is gorgeous, but that's besides the point. Most Indians I see are as dark as I am, but just like members of my own family, there's variations. Hell, last night at the 'net cafe, the attendant asked me if I was of Indian descent, and he wasn't the first to pose that question.

Part of me wonders if this unlikely and unrealistic beauty standard is the result of colonialism or globalism. Probably some combination of the two.

Hampi! (now with captions)

I'm a little weary, but my skin has returned to normal -- no more puffing, itching or swelling. I'm now peeling like a Chiquita, due to overexposure to UV radiation. The hat and long sleeves protect me, but not entirely.

I'm writing this now from Bangalore -- we took a "luxury coach" here from Hospet last night after missing the overnight train. Compared to most modes of travel, a person could do worse than 10 hours in an air-con Volvo bus.

Luggage in our laps and underfoot, we made it here in cramped style earlier this morning.

But this entry isn't for kvetching about my disdain for bus travel.

This entry consists chiefly of photos, as words seem small and entirely insignificant when it comes to Hampi, India. I'd rather show than tell.

Except for the pic Liz snapped of Chandru, our tour guide (with her Treo, yet!), I captured these images with our mini-DV camera. Prepare your broadband connection -- and for your mind to be blown.

The temple elephant is well-cared for.



He's eating rice straw, by the way.



Put a coin in your palm, and offer it to the elephant. He takes it with his trunk, passes it to his handler, and then returns with the smooch!



Courtyard of Virupaksha Temple. Weddings are still performed in the smaller temple at rear left.



Visible for miles, the main gopuram at Virupaksha is almost 50 meters tall!



Detail of the figures above a smaller temple



Passage to the Manmatha Tank, a reservoir built to contain the drainage from the temple complex -- and keep it from flooding during monsoons.



Another angle on the gopuram



Chandru leads the way to the musical pillars of the Vittala Temple



This fresco portraying Shiva in 10 different poses dates back to the 16th century.



Another view of the fresco



Another scene depicting Virupaksha -- in granite



This drummer is part of a twice-daily procession at Virupaksha temple. We didn't get one of the incredible horn player.



Three carvings of Nandi, Shiva's vehicle



A rare, three-headed Nandi



Detailed carvings abound, many in excellent condition.



Another look at the stunning gopuram at the active end of the Hampi Bazaar



These chalk decorations are intricate, beautiful and temporary.



This gentleman sold me some water, and kept me entertained while his assistant ran out to get some change.



During the processions down the bazaar during festivals, this was the viewing stand for the nobles.



Just as it was 650 years ago, the Hampi bazaar is occupied by many families.



Looking west at the gopuram



Boulder formations behind the east end of the bazaar



A World Heritage site, many of the structures are getting much-needed TLC



These boulders were used to build the city -- and provide natural defenses



This monolithic nandi dates back to the 10th Century. For real.



Looking west at the bazaar from the Kodandarama temple.



Another view looking west.



Nature has a profound sense of whimsy.

Hanuman, the monkey god. He's quite the prankster.

I think this is the Achyutaraya temple, but I can't be sure. Granite pillars, topped by brick and mortar.

Do you see the temples carved into the boulders?

How to cut boulders: drill some notches and insert wooden pegs. They get wet, expand, and shear the rock according to your specs!

See how easy?

Kali, the destroyer. She's blood-red for a reason.

Walter's first bindi

Strangers in a strange land

Another bazaar for a ruined temple complex

Atop granite columns, detailed carvings abide in brick and mortar

Shiva, dancing and playing a flute

Photos don't reveal the grandeur. Go see Hampi for yourself.

Liz and I were simply awed.

All temples have guards by the door

They've lost their tusks, but still stand their posts.

Another arch, with people for scale

And again. These engineers knew exactly what they were doing.

If it hasn't fallen by now, it probably isn't going to.

The gopuram had to be tall enough so pilgrims could see it from far away -- and so inhabitants could see if any invaders were en route.

The King's Balance. There was once a scale here large enough to accommodate a man. The king would sit on one side, and the other was loaded with precious metals, gems and other riches. After which, the goodies were doled out to the neediest people. To think people complain about socialized medicine.

I think this is the Vittala temple.

Detail of carvings at Vittala



Garuda's stone chariot. At one point, the wheels actually turned.

The slender pillars are made of granite -- and produce different musical tones. They were staffed by musicians who'd pound them with wood sticks, and could be heard for miles.

Detail of carving at Vittala temple

A dancing statue decapitated by invaders, but restored by archeologists.

Detail of carving at Vittala.

Carvings depicting Hindu (foreground) and Muslim (rear) warriors

Lotus carved into Vittala temple ceiling.

There's that tricky monkey god again. Legend has it that someone was sick and sent him into the mountains to bring back healing herbs. He wasn't sure which herbs were which, so he brought back the entire mountain.

Lotus Mahal, inside the Zenana enclosure -- a leisure hall for the king and his queens. Not only is the building oriented to maximize ventilation, clay pipes carried water through the ducts -- 15th century air conditioning!

I love this shot. It's the same air-con leisure center. Note the blend of Islamic and Hindu architecture -- all in the name of keeping the peace.

Detail of archway of Lotus Mahal

Elephant stables -- again, note the melange of architectural styles.

View through doorways between stables

Chandru, our fantastic guide.

Road trip: Panaji -> Hospet

I may have already mentioned this, but I've completely lost my sense of time. Today is Saturday, which I only know because the newspaper left under our door this morning said so.

The Mayfair, the hotel that hosted us during our first visit to Panaji was nice, but the Panjim Inn was spectacular. The owner converted his own colonial mansion into a guest house, and I'm grateful he did so. Lovely antique wardrobes, a four-poster bed in each room, and the bathrooms are lovingly detailed floor to ceiling in bright mosaics.

A word about the bathrooms in mid-range Indian hotels: I don't know why this design hasn't caught on in the States, but it's extremely efficient: sink, toilet and shower, with a floor that gently slopes toward a corner drain. No shower curtains, no extraneous cabinetry, no carpeting.

It must be a snap to clean. When I build my dream house, I hope to emulate the layout.

Perhaps these photos will encourage you to continue reading this lengthy entry...

Deccan Plains

Polyglot with his sister, Lakhsme

Liz asked the hotel staff about hiring a car, and they referred us to a pleasant fellow with a shiny new white SUV large enough to accommodate a small village. His rate: 8000 Rs, which seemed rich. I spent 15 minutes trying to negotiate the price down, but I could only get him to go to 7250 or so.

He showed me around the vehicle proudly, demonstrating the flip-down seats in the cargo space in back, the extensive legroom, and so forth. He also pulled out a tax form indicating that he'd have to pay about 1400 Rs just to ferry us across the border into Karnataka. Not to mention the cost of petrol.

Liz seemed sure that we could do better, so we got another referral to Sanjay, an equally affable driver with a smaller tourist vehicle. Working with him, we got the price down to 6000 Rs for the 200-Km drive.

Two hundred kilometers on the road is quite a journey here. These aren't California freeways, where the worst delays are caused by rush-hour traffic or rubberneckers. Here, one might be delayed due to a fallen power line, mudslides, and not least of all, monsoon squalls.

I gave Sanjay 1000 Rs as a retainer the night before we were to leave, and he said he'd see us Friday morning around 7 or so for an early start. His price included petrol, border crossing fees and other incidentals.

"I'll bring my driver with me, and we'll go together. No problem?" he said, not really a question.

I agreed, and Liz and I did our best to get a good night's sleep. She did a bang-up job, but I fed my insomnia by watching several episodes of "24" on pirated DVDs, an excellent gift from one of Liz's friends who knew we'd occasionally find ourselves with time to fill during the trip.

Friday morning, we checked out of Panjim Inn during a power outage, which necessitated payment by traveler's check, as opposed to a credit card. Change in hand, we headed outside to meet Sanjay. Instead, we met Surinder, the guy Sanjay had farmed us out to.

I'm not sure why the change in plan threw me briefly -- it's not as if Sanjay and I were college pals. Either way, we'd be driving across the Western Ghats and up into the Deccan plains with a complete stranger, so six of one, a half dozen of the other. We loaded our packs in back and squeezed in.

Outside Panaji, another taxi flashed his lights at us, and we pulled over. Sanjay dashed across the road, exchanged a few words with Surinder, and wished us a safe journey. I felt a little better.

The drive began as most Goans were starting their day: children in bright uniforms walking to school, workers huddling in and around concrete bus shelters, young men with long sticks, herding goats or cows for the day's grazing.

We drove through South Goa, and I did my best to follow our progress on the Lonely Planet map. Liz put her iPod earbuds in place and gazed out the window, seeking her travel mode. I stopped following the map when I saw striped pikes blocking the road at Karwar, the crossing into Karnataka state.

Surinder spoke to some policemen while we waited in the vehicle. Two officers in crisp uniforms sauntered over casually, and I slid open the window. The usual queries: where are you from, where are you going, how long do you plan to stay, etc. I'd heard that the cops at border crossings were notorious for their thinly veiled requests for baksheesh, but we got off lightly:

A young cop asked us if we had any American coins or stamps -- I've met more
numismatists and philatelists here than I have in a lifetime lived in the U.S. His older, jaded partner behind the aviator frames asked if we had any cigarettes. We had neither to offer, so as soon as Surinder completed his forms, the younger officer raised the pike, and we were on our way.

I returned to the Karnataka map, but fatigue got the better of me, and I nodded off for a while. Liz said I slept for an hour or two, which surprises the hell out of me. Generally, I'm a poor sleeper while traveling. I rarely snooze on planes, trains or (especially) in automobiles.

It's probably a control issue: I like to be aware of my surroundings at all times, as if keeping my eyes on the road would keep us out of harm's way. Still and all, I woke up more than once after being jounced by a pothole or startled by the Doppler effect of an approaching lorry horn.

Despite the slick, narrow roads and fatalistic driving style of Indian motorists, I only saw three accidents during the hours we spent on the road; two were trucks bearing heavy loads. The first had run off the soft shoulder and into an irrigation ditch. The second wreck was far more dramatic: a lorry had rolled onto its roof, partially compressing the driver's cab.

The third accident was between a pickup truck and a sedan, and must have happened moments before we came round the bend. There was safety glass in the road, and the respective drivers were still shaking off their adrenaline shock before the inevitable Blame Game began.

Good news: I didn't see any injuries at these scenes, which was surprising. Around here, drivers pass on blind curves, narrow bridges, and everywhere else they think they can overtake the vehicle ahead. As ever, cows were the only entities on the road that got a wide berth.

Goa is at sea level, so driving up into the plains was a nice change in landscape and temperature. We passed vast stretches where the land seemed practically denuded, save for some scattered trees where workers and animals shaded themselves.

In Hubli, about two hours outside our destination, I finally got a network signal on our Treo worldphone. I tried calling different hotels a number of times, but each attempt was met with an annoyingly cheerful automated message that repeatedly informed me that the numbers I was calling simply did not exist.

Liz and I looked through the documentation that came with the Airtel service, but to no avail. In desperation, I picked up the Lonely Planet book and looked up "telephone" in the index. I was directed to pages 88-89, where there was this helpful bit of advice:

... telephone numbers in in most parts are India [are] undergoing changes. Although we have implemented these changes where applicable, if you do happen to have difficulty getting through to a local number, first try adding a "2" to the front of it...

Mentally, I gave myself a cookie before dialing -- and connecting! -- to Hotel Mallagi in Hospet, 9 km from Hampi, our point of interest. In short, clipped tones, the clerk gave me the rates for a double with A/C, but I was unable to make a reservation.

"As I already said, sir, it's pending availability," he sighed into the phone.

Each morning, I've been trying out a new travel mantra. Friday's was "CYA." I called an alternate hotel to check availability.

We made excellent time to Hospet, pulling into the hotel's porte cochere around 3:30 p.m. IST. I pulled out a wad of bills for Surinder and counted them out in full view of the hotel staff. Compounding our visibility, Liz very generously tipped the bellboy who brought up our bags while I checked us in.

As a result, we've received excellent service, but there are constant knocks at the door asking if we need anything. Everyone's gotta make a living, I guess.

After sleeping in all morning, we made a preliminary trip to Hampi this afternoon via auto-rickshaw, a eye-popping, butt-bouncing 9 km journey. About 650 years ago, Hampi was the capital of one of the largest Hindu kingdoms, a nexus for commerce and culture. But you know that old saying about, uh, success -- no one's smells good but your own.

As a result, the place was sacked by some player-hating sultanates, but the ruins persist and some of the temples remain intact. We checked out the Hampi Bazaar, where we met several brilliant, beautiful children. Their English is universally good, and we met one young man who's quite the polyglot.

"How many languages do you speak?" he asked me.

"English, and just a little bit of French," replied I sheepishly, holding my fingers this far apart.

"Ah! Je m'appelle (forgot his name!) Comment allez vous?"

"Ah, comme ci, comme ca," I replied, grinning. "Je m'appelle Walter. Ca va?"

I wish I could recall his name, because when he realized he couldn't hustle us for postcards and maps, he just wanted to talk. We walked the length of the bazaar with him, and at one point, he even corrected Liz's Spanish, remanding her for mixing former and informal forms of address. All told, he said he was conversant in 8 languages, and I believe him.

A bookstore owner helped us get a guide, Gutti Chandru, B.A. (LL.B.) I'm assuming those initials indicate his level of education, and I only know them because we're meeting him at 7:30 tomorrow morning for a half-day tour of Hampi. We went over the area map, and he showed us what we could expect to see before the sun was too high in the sky.

I told him all sounded good, but pointed to the Virupaksha temple that wasn't on our itinerary. I've developed a strong fondness for Ganesh, the joyful, elephant-headed deity who removes obstacles. If the temple's elephant is in attendance, you can get a "blessing" for 1 Rs.

The blessing comes in the form of a smooch on the crown of your head, a bargain at any price.

I hope to return with more amazing photos and stories. The temples and surroundings are like nothing I've ever seen. And those children just glow. I let Liz do most of the talking as I tried to capture some of them on video and in stills.

I'll not try to convince you that these kids are living in anything besides poverty and squalor, but the few we met -- their spirits shine through. They smiled and laughed at us and with us, and I'm looking forward to meeting them again.

The Trivia of Travel

Friday was the first day our plans diverged. Walter wasn't feeling well, and we had errands to do before leaving Mumbai, so I gamely headed into the heat. First stop: Sony World. We'd been assured we could buy an ethernet cable there (to make connecting the laptop easier in 'net cafes). Alas, no luck. Next mission was an ATM stop. No problem. Then I tried to re-locate the place where we'd purchased the pre-paid chip for our phone (the phone will receive, but not send, SMS messages).

I remembered buying the chip in the ground floor of a tall, decaying, dirty-beige building. Unfortunately, our hotel was surrounded on three sides by tall, decaying, dirty-beige buildings. After a few laps around the neighborhood, I went back up to the room to change into a cooler shirt (the dark-colored blouse I'd foolishly worn was trashed) and get my bearings.

Second try -- success. I found the shop, the proprietor remembered me, but he had as little luck as I'd had with the SMS problem. Finally he suggested I take a cab to one of the mobile provider's offices ("Orange" is the company name). I bought some batteries and sundries as a thank-you, and was on my way.

The Orange store was worth the trip in an unexpected way; I got to see some of the young Indian technorati at work. Slender young women in saris greeted customers at desks, then referred customers with technical problems to a group of t-shirted men and women -- none a day over 22, to my eye -- for tech support. The elegant sari-clad girls would follow the t-shirt crew and watch the problem-solving with what looked like complete fascination. The techie kids struggled with my Treo, but ultimately gave up.

"Since you have purchased Orange service, it's our duty to try to help you," I was told, "but we are not familar with this type of phone." Ah well. We geek-bonded for a moment and agreed that it was probably a character-set problem somehow. Nothing for it now, though. Maybe there's a manual online somewhere. Then I spent a half hour or so observing the intricacies of the head-bob as I canvassed the district around the Orange store, looking for the elusive computer cable. Once the last merchant I asked referred me back to my starting point, I decided to hop a cab back to the hotel.

Walter recounted the rest of the day, so I won't repeat it. Although I don't know if anyone could adequately express the chaos of CST at rush hour. Walter lost a few semi-valuables from a lower pocket, and although he's not sure, I suspect they vanished during our stunned traversal of the station. It was the first moment I had even the slightest thought of just chucking this whole trip and heading home. The thought was fleeting, of course.

Once we were on the train, though, everything was lovely. Fortunately for me (unfortunately for Walter), I sleep like a baby on trains. Just put my pack under my head (arm through a strap for bonus security) and I'm out in seconds. I'd open my eyes briefly when folks came through offering coffee, food, and chai, then sink back into blissful slumber.

Now we're in gorgeous, steamy, tropical Goa. Walter's still feeling unwell, but I'm only suffering a mild sunburn. That, and the occasional wish for a burqa. My more-than-ample American bust, combined with the thin blouses that weather dictates (buttoned up and modest, of course -- complete with camisole underneath) mean I get more than my share of hoots, smooch-noises, and enthusiastic greetings from passers-by. Makes not a whit of sense to me, given the gorgeous Indian women everywhere (slender, beautifully dressed and coiffed, and not at all red-faced and damp from the heat).

Which reminds me. I have to know: why don't Indian women perspire?. I see men -- fat and thin -- mopping their faces with handkerchiefs, and soaking through their shirts. Not as much as we are, but still. Men sweat. Women here, from what I can tell, are either genetically blessed, or dip their entire bodies in some kind of magic antiperspirant every morning. I know, I know, it's trivial. But when you're soaking through your shirt and yet another perfectly cool, unrumpled woman strolls past, you just gotta wonder.

Photos, lovely photos.

Liz is using her super-compact Nikon, and I'm digging out the mini-DV camera for my shots, though I've only taken a few minutes of video so far.

When we get somewhere with faster connectivity, I'll see if I can upload some moving images for your viewing pleasure. Until then, enjoy these pics!

More after the jump. Hope you're not on dial-up like we are. Phew!

Panaji


Panaji


Lounging cushion, Laguna Anjuna Hotel


Anjuna - future rice paddy


Anjuna, road to the general store


Anjuna - General Store


Cliffs at Anjuna Beach


Don't get too close to the edge...


Anjuna is so quiet


Holy cows!


A few more bovine friends in Anjuna


These veal will never become Osso Bucco


Sunset, Arabian Sea


Gorgeous room at Panaji Inn


Comfy balcony, Panaji Inn


View from the Love Shack, Anjuna


Can you tell we loved this room?


Unit O2, heretofore known as the Warner-Thompson Suite


Unit O2, from the courtyard


Where we enjoyed sumptuous room service


The bed was firm, but comfy.


We really loved this room


On the road back to Panaji


Goods by Gita


Gita's intricate beadwork


Looking out from The Love Shack


Puppy at The Love Shack


Gita is from Karnataka -- and drives a hard bargain!


Beverages and bangles

Goa: Laguna Anjuna

I can see why the Portuguese were loathe to give this place up. It's beautiful, despite the package-tour hotels that crowd this stretch of coastline. Globalism is the new imperialism -- there's a Subway sandwich shop directly across from our hotel in Baga, and we passed a Domino's on the way here.

We departed Panaji two days ago for Anjuna, a former hippie colony. I only saw one bohemian close-up, a skinny guy with tattoos, sunglasses and a thousand-yard stare. He had a North American look, but he paid us no never mind as we walked past each other on the narrow path to the beach. Perhaps he was deep in meditation.

Then again, this is the off season. Most people don't just find themselves here during monsoons -- current visitors are purposefully avoiding the throngs in thongs and Speedos who toss Frisbees by day and rave by night. Maybe he saw us as interlopers, intruding on his scene. Ah, I project.

Feeling hemmed in by my surroundings more or less ended when we arrived in Goa. Since leaving Mumbai, my comfort level has dropped to the point where I've even been breaking my cardinal rule: always know where you're going next.

We checked out of out hotel in Panaji, the capital, and had a destination in mind: a resort house called The White Negro (yeah, really) in Anjuna. Our cab driver knew the town, but had no idea where our hotel was to be found. We pulled over repeatedly in narrow shoulders, traffic speeding past haphazardly while he asked directions. Once or twice, I was able to point out our landing point on the map, but the directions we received along the way got us where we needed to go.

Eventually.

I stayed in the cab with our stuff while Liz inspected the place -- just a seashell's throw from the beach, The White Negro offers clean rooms with overhead fans, but the heat rash I've acquired in the last several days really requires air conditioning for maximum relief.

(Feeling much better now, thanks to a mix of Aquaphor, Lanacane and Lotrimin. Thanks, Liz.)

As soon as Liz mentioned the need for A/C, one of the workers pointed down the road: "Laguna Anjuna. A/C, no problem."

We turned around on the dirt track, which was becoming increasing narrow and rutted the further we drove from the main road. The Lonely Planet map indicated our alternate hotel was adjacent to a St. Anthony's Church, so when we saw a sparkling white plaster edifice after rounding a bend, I had a good feeling. A large tile billboard directed us into the resort.

I quickly recalled the guidebook's description: high-end accommodations, detached and semi-detached bungalows, in-house restaurant, even a health spa called "Club Mud."

Budget was very much in my mind when I tipped my hat to the watchman and asked which way to the reception desk. This place looked like it would cost, and the LP had quoted something on the order of $75/night during high season.

The well-kept pool made my hand tighten involuntarily on my wallet as I walked past the gracious hacienda-style house and up the flagstone footpath to Reception. Inside, a young woman rested her head on the counter, daydreaming. A young man reclined on a bed, watching a cricket match.

I asked to see a room, and the young guy roused himself from the TV and led me through the winding paths between bungalows. Each building had a terra cotta roof, and walls hewn from the orange-brown sea cliffs a few hundred yards away. The guy from reception opened the door to unit O2, and I squeezed my wallet so hard, I could swear I heard it whimper.

I stepped through the narrow swinging doors into a great, circular room flanked by windows, light filtering through palms that cast dancing shadows. I looked up and was awestruck by the 25-foot domed brick ceiling. He flung open the door to the bathroom, which was relatively clean and well-appointed.

"What's the rate?" I asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"Eh... 2200 rupees, but I must check," he answered.

Walking back to reception with him, I almost pulled a muscle calculating the exchange rate. More than $50/night, twice the budget!

Back at reception, I took off my hat and took a seat at the desk where the bored woman seemed slightly more animated. I had a feeling she had more fun booking guests than watching televised cricket.

(Sorry, folks, I think the sport's dull as dishwater. "Polite baseball," my eye.)

"How many nights?" she sighed.

"What's the rate, please?"

"2200 Rs per night." She leaned over the desk, resting her head on folded arms, looking sullen.

"Thanks. Let me think it over -- I'll be right back." I wandered back down the stone path, stepping over puddles that hadn't evaporated after the previous night's downpour.

Liz looked at me expectantly. "Room okay?" she asked, eyebrows arched.

"Really nice," I said with a glint in my eye, "but a little on the pricey side. 2200 a night."

Her face brightened. "See if you can bargain them down. It's the low season, after all." Sometimes, when Liz smiles at me, I feel as if I have special powers. Go ahead and tell me I'm corny, but this woman imbues me with confidence.

Bargaining is not my bag, baby. Need it be said that Americans are not born retail negotiators? (The only time I've ever tried to bargain someone down was at Best Buy when I got a discount on a TV because it was the floor model.)

Maybe it's the fluoridated water, maybe it's our innate sense of fair play, but you just don't walk into Denny's and try to wheedle Darlene into knocking 2 bucks off your Grand Slam breakfast.

I arrived to reception, resolved to do some dealing. The young woman was still slouched over the counter as the TV announcer went apoplectic after a particularly sticky wicket.

"Excuse me -- what was the rate? 2200?"

"Yes, sir."

"For two people? Well, just one night, then. This is a very beautiful place, Laguna Anjuna. But it's very expensive. If it was lower, I might stay longer."

Her head didn't move from her paperwork, but her eyes met mine. "How much do you want to pay?"

"Well, you know, off season. Could you do 1500?"

She smiled glumly and shook her head. "No, no." She grabbed a calculator and entered some digits, then swiveled the LCD to eliminate confusion.

1900

I used her Casio to divide by 42.5 to see how many dollars that was: $44.

"Could you do 1650?" I asked, showing off my most charming smile.

She showed me two rows of sparking whites. "1800?"

"Ok," I nodded.

I gave her my passport and began filling out registration forms. It was so hot that the perspiration from my arm caused the paper to tear as I signed.

Other than the occasional (okay, semi-frequent) power outage, our two nights at Laguna Anjuna were extremely pleasant. We never had to put in our request for hot water, since the cold tap was always lukewarm.

The staff was gracious without being obsequious, and we had the place mostly to ourselves until some German tourists arrived the night before we left. The food was outstanding. If you see thali on the menu in an Indian restaurant, do yourself a favor and get some.

After our first night, we woke up early so we could be first in the pool. The groundskeeper was still doing his thing with the net and filters, so we couldn't yet have our dip.

"Just ten minutes," said the manager, giving me a slow head bob.

After thirty minutes and a light breakfast, we lolled in the bathtub-warm water, all on our lonesome. Liz laughed as a scarlet dragonfly strafed her a few times, and I was struck by the lush yellow orchids around the pool in full bloom and the frangipani flowers that fell in the water after a light breeze.

And, I saved twenty bucks.

We walked down to the beach a few hundred yards away. The children in Goa have it better than those in Mumbai -- most of the kids we see wear clean clothes or school uniforms. They're more likely to greet you with a sprightly "hello!" than a plaintive "please, sir" and an open palm. I wonder if these kids know how lucky they are.

I'm starting to carry that awareness with me everywhere these days.

More on Baga in the next entry. We've opted to return to Panaji, where we're trying to hire a car to take us the 200 km or so to Hampi, the seat of a former kingdom that has left behind some remarkable archeological finds. Also, the elevation is 457 meters, so it could be a little cooler.

Konkan Kanya Express

(I wrote this while on the train this morning. We've since arrived in Panaji, Goa.)

Our train left Mumbai last night at 2300 hrs, and we're supposed to arrive in Old Goa another hour or so, at about 1030. We'd ordered our tickets online two weeks ago, and the Concierge at the Hilton graciously held them for us. No regrets about starting off this journey in comfort. Yesterday morning greeted me with a sniffle, a cough, and a bit of malaise, so I stuck around the room, drank juice, and surfed the Web to find a hotel for our first night in Goa.

Since our train left so late, we checked out at 6 p.m, and left our bags at the bell desk while we ventured to the main post office to send a few things home. Fortunately, the main post office is behind CST, formerly known as Victoria Station, so we had a chance to scope things out before our late-night departure. Liz wanted to confirm that our train was indeed leaving from CST, as she'd heard that a printed ticket is not always the last word regarding one's point of embarkation.

I felt badly about leaving Mumbai, as Abby put me in touch with her friend's hubby in the hopes that we could meet and even check out where he works (TV studio). Sadly, time and energy weren't on our side, but I'm most appreciative for the effort. Thanks, Abby & Ashwyn!

The main post office is a lovely building, but a bureaucratic nightmare -- or wet dream, depending on which side of the counter you're on.

To ship a package from India, the contents must be compressed tightly before they're placed inside a linen bag that is cut to fit -- and then sewn shut. One one side, you write the FROM: address, then you flip the parcel and fill out the TO: portion. Luckily, I was able to get the parcel sewn at our hotel for 50 Rs.

Our cab let us off at the post office, and I made a beeline for Window #2, which was clearly marked "Foreign Post." The grouchy worker behind the counter waved me away, indicating that I needed to go to the Speed Mail office in the new annex, three floors up.

I was skeptical, since the guidebooks stated that the Speed Mail office closed at 1600, but off we went. I think I'm getting a better handle on how to obtain information from folks here -- ask two or three people, and then aggregate the data. So, after wending down dark Victorian hallways for a few minutes, I asked a quick-stepping fellow, "which way to the annex?"

"New building this way," he fairly spat, and we followed. Are postal workers disgruntled the world over?

We tracked him around a corner, through a courtyard, and into the "new" annex, a crumbling bunker of a building that probably dated back to Victoria's Jubilee.

The Speed Post office was closed, as expected. I explained to the guys packing up that I merely wanted to ship something to the USA, and that celerity was not an issue. The alpha worker redirected us back to our starting point.

I thanked him, and we trudged back down and into the main building where I stood in the foreign post line -- twenty feet from where we'd begun. After some misunderstanding on either side of the counter, I was given a form so I could list the parcel's contents. Total cost: 975 Rs for a 1.4 kilo package -- and 25 rupees for two liters of Aquarich to make sure we didn't pass out in the street.

I asked the chowkidar posted outside which way to the train station, and he gave me the inimitable head-bob, indicating that it was just around the corner.

I wish I were a better writer, because I can only describe CST at rush hour as a teeming mass of humanity. An endless tide of suburban commuters surging into the station on foot, bicycles, and of course, inside the ever-present black and yellow Padmini taxis that crowd Mumbai's streets. Bear in mind, you're also weaving your way through beggars, sleeping dogs and street vendors.

I've been through some of the world's busiest airports, and I'm intimately familiar with Grand Central and Penn Station in New York, but this was the first moment in India for which I felt unprepared. I suppressed the reptile part of my brain in order to remain mindful of where my travel companion was at all times, and to keep our goal in mind -- where do we get our train?

Liz and I shared a eureka when an LED signboard flashed from Hindi to English displaying our train's name. We confirmed our platform and got the hell out of the station, cabbing back to the Kolaba district.

We had a strong cocktail and a meal at Not Just Jazz. It was nearly deserted, as the jazz combo wouldn't be gigging until 10. As before, the service and food was wonderful. Our waiter was from Mangalore, and engaged us in small talk, as is the custom here. He called over another waiter who hailed from Goa, and confirmed where the best beaches were -- as well as the ones to be avoided.

The jazz combo was tuning up as we finished our meal, and we were on our way out when the dhoti-wearing pianist walked in, hefting his Roland keyboard.

"You're leaving?" He seemed to take it personally.

"We've got a train to Goa at 2300. But next time..." I gave him a thumbs-up, and he smiled in response.

A quick stop by the hotel to retrieve our bags, and then back to CST. Luckily, rush hour was long gone, so I didn't have to muster 125% awareness to find the 1st class AC/sleeper waiting room.

We walked down the platform, passing the 3rd and 2nd class cars, making me even more thankful that we could afford a coupe, as opposed to being packed hip-to-hip in an open car, or crammed into a tiny sleeper berth.

On Indian trains, you're assigned a seat, so we stopped at the first 1AC car to check the passenger manifest -- and found our names. Maybe we'd accumulated some good karma in Mumbai.

Dinesh, our porter, took Liz's bag and helped her aboard, while I struggled under the weight of my maxed-out backpack/daypack. Settled in our compartment, Liz promptly climbed into the top berth and began to snooze, while I stretched out with a copy of Culture Shock: India and listened to my iPod.

I probably got a few hours of sleep, but when it grew light outside, I whipped back the curtain with anticipation. The sun was rising over the Western Ghats, the range that follows the coast along the Arabian sea. Our compartment only allows us to see eastward, but there's plenty to take in:

Clay-rich earth, sculpted into terraces and paddies. Goats and cows, heads down, eating the tiny green shoots that the monsoons bring. Tuk-tuks, horsecarts and SUVs stopped at rail crossings. Mountains, stone wells, and navigable rivers plied by men on rafts with long poles. The further south we go, the greener it gets.

Excursion to Elephanta

We'd tried to go to Elephanta Island yesterday, but we arrived too late. It's slightly over an hour to get there from the mooring at the Gateway of India, and the touts who stalk tourists there let us know we'd only have an hour or so to explore the island's caves if we left at 3.

A downward facing dog at Elephanta Temple

So, we came back to the hotel for a good night's sleep so we could get an early start. Having no idea of the strenuous day ahead, I ate a Raj-style breakfast of eggs and toast with a rasher of bacon. Liz, ever the explorer, chose idli instead, which came with a variety of chutneys and some lovely papaya slices.

We cabbed back to the Gateway around 9, where several touts recognized us from the afternoon before. Big, Black Americans and zaftig redheads make an impression round these parts.

Tourists outside the Caves of Elephanta

A girl no older than eight stuck to us like glue, despite our protests. Trying to shake her, we walked down the esplanade by the Taj Hotel, an ornate, opulent Victorian structure reputedly built by an well-to-do Indian after he'd been denied admission to a posh Bombay hotel, back when the British were noisily sucking the marrow out of his country.

Payback's a bitch -- his hotel is gorgeous.

The girl kept scratching at what I assumed were lice as she begged with plaintive eyes. Many street children here cough theatrically when they approach you, but her scratching seemed genuine. This day, I'd brought small offerings for the kids I knew would beseech me for baksheesh, alms, whatever. Wheat toast in a napkin, along with three pots of marmalade.

This largesse was distributed among three children, and I immediately felt like a selfish, selfish man. If you're beseiged by beggars -- in San Francisco, Tijuana or Mumbai -- try to keep a little perspective. These human beings are following the dictum of their DNA by keeping themselves alive for another day by any means necessary.

What would you do if you had no social or family safety net, no education, and no skills? I bet you'd hit up anyone who even looked like they had a nickel to spare. Bootstraps are all well and good, but first you need to own a pair of boots.

At one point, a torn 10-rupee note fell out of my pocket. I offered it to her, hoping it would be enough to assuage my guilt and get her something to eat, but no dice. A 2-rupee coin fell at her feet (tossed by a passer-by), and she snatched it up, before re-directing her soft but steely gaze back at me. She addressed me, clearly displeased, but still clutching the twin halves of the note. Eventually, one of the boat tour promoters growled at her, and she faded into the crowd.

The outbound voyage to Elephanta Island took a little over an hour. Not much to see after the Mumbai skyline faded in the smog, just a lot of container and tanker ships. A sign reading "NO PHOTO GRAPHI ON BOARD" didn't deter many, if any. For the most part, our fellow travelers were middle-class Indians dressed in jeans and Dockers, as well as the more familiar saris and salwar kameez.

The sign made some sense as I saw the tremendous infrastructure in Mumbai harbor -- a naval installation, an abandoned battery on an artificial island, tankers going to and from a nearby refinery, a nuclear power plant, and not least of all, the massive Tata steel works.

Once we put in at the long jetty on Elephanta, we walked the long pier back to the mainland while every other visitor made a beeline for the miniature steam train that runs to the park entrance. Paying 15 rupees for a quaint little train ride seemed, well, silly. Besides, your legs aren't broken -- you can walk, I said to myself.

Serendipitous, since we were met by a quiet young man named Nitim C. Mali who offered to be our guide. I was a little more inclined than Liz to accept his offer of 450 Rs/30 minutes. The island's attraction are five caves hewn from from the rock, each containing enormous bas reliefs chiseled into the walls that depict scenes from Hindi mythology. Nitin's pitch was persuasive without being overbearing, and he took the trouble to show us his official government tour permit.

Liz seemed skeptical, but I was able to sway her, and off we went. The breezes that had caressed us on the ride over cruelly vanished almost immediately. Reaching the pier, I was already drenched in sweat, but we'd not even begun the adventure.

We diverged almost immediately from the group who'd sailed over with us as our guide let us to his village. We passed through a rice paddy -- well, it'll be a rice paddy as soon as the monsoon starts. Any day now, we're told. Today, the paddy was a hardscrabble sunken clearing with dry, cracked earth.

The three of us passed through his village, shabby cinder block and brick abodes that looked tidy, but well-lived in. Laundry on the line, satellite dishes, toys in the yard. Alien, but oddly familiar. Chickens and roosters squawked and flurried out of the narrow paths, but the ubiquitous, panting Ur-dogs forced us to step over them, their tongues lolling in the heat. Friendly faces appeared in doorways and windows, greeting Nitin.

"Does everyone here know each other?" I asked.

"Oh, yes. Everyone."

Nitin nodded while I inwardly wondered whether such interconnectedness was always a good thing. Me, I couldn't live on an island of 1200 where everyone knew everyone else's business. I already reside at the tip of a peninsula with about 750,000 other people, and the place often feels too small.

After giving us a frame of reference for daily life on Elephanta, we headed for the main attraction. To reach the caves, you must climb one hundred twenty steps. More like 120 landings, as each step is around 8 feet deep and a foot high. Several touts offered to take us the distance in sedan chairs, but there was no way I was going to let four guys carry my fat American behind up to the park entrance.

The steps are lined with local vendors selling everything from Ganesh T-shirts to silver jewelry, and each merchant dutifully tried to draw us in to examine their wares. Our guide has lived each of his 26 years on Elephanta, which insulated us from some of the most aggressive sales techniques. A quiet word or glance from Nitin, and most of them left us alone.

We purchased our tickets near the cave entrance, where I was compelled to sign a form indicating that I'd not take any moving pictures inside the caves. Liz had her digicam, so I wasn't worried, even though my camcorder takes decent stills.

Nitin is a encyclopedia of knowledge regarding the carvings, and he brought each scene to life for us as he explained Shiva's three faces, his union with Parvati and the other key tenets of Hinduism. I was pleased that he seemed surprised when we recounted the story of Ganesh's birth -- and death at the hands of his father (I didn't let on that we'd heard the story the day before during an audio tour at the Prince of Wales museum).

We explored the caves thoroughly, and I got some excellent pictures. At one point, a very aggro guard got up in Nitin's grille for letting me use my camcorder to take stills. Even after showing him the photos, we put the camera away.

Nitin sighed with annoyance, explaining that the guards send mixed messages: don't use your camcorder inside the caves, but for a little baksheesh, they'll look the other way. This guard didn't seem to want to believe that the camcorder would capture still images. Since you can't fight city hall, I stashed my camera until we were back outside.

The caves are a truly incredible experience, and if you have an opportunity to visit, take it. Despite the efforts of the Portuguese to destroy the incredible art and religious symbols on display, the place abides.

Monkeys of Elephanta

Mind the monkeys, however. Their main source of food is cadging carbs from homo sapiens. As Nitin warned, "if they see anything that looks like something to eat, they'll take it right out of your hand. Careful!"

Luckily, we'd been preceded by a score of picnickers, so there was no pressure to cater to our simian hosts. I'd never seen monkeys in the wild before. I was engaged in watching them until I had a pang while a pair groomed each other for lice, ticks and the like. I'd seen two young beggars engaged in the same activity in the street before we left, and it didn't resonate nicely.

This is the world in which we live. I guess I knew that, but I didn't really know it until just recently.

After the caves, Nitin took us on a hike to the highest point of Elephanta. Heat, humidity and my hydration level had me ready to quit, but I'm glad we pressed on. My quads won't thank me tomorrow, but hiking to the summit of a mountainous island isn't something you get to do every day.

There are two British cannon emplacements on either side of the summit. I believe Nitin said they were were 22 feet long, but by that point, I was so exhausted, he could have told us that the British flung Yorkshire Puddings to repel Dutch, French and Portuguese interlopers, and I'd have believed him.

As we were preparing our descent, we walked past a hill that was truly the highest point on the island. On the mound, there was a shirtless Caucasian man in his twenties who appeared to be sitting in the lotus position under the shade of a tree, palms turned upward.

It wasn't until we got a little closer that I realized he had his cell phone in one hand and a 7-UP in the other.

The ride back was a little faster -- low tide, as Nitin explained.

We sat in the second row behind the prow, behind two French chicks wearing flimsy cotton skirts and spaghetti tank tops. Two young Indian men took a seat closer to the front, the best vantage point for staring at these Gallic beauties. By the time we pulled into the dock by the Gateway, the men were asleep on each other's shoulders.

When we got back to the hotel, a film crew with all the trappings was shooting an ersatz wedding reception in the lobby. We skirted the reflectors and cables, staggering back to our room in search of electrolytes. By my count, I drank more than 3 liters of water today, and I could probably use some more.

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Some Photos

Myrna drops off two sleep-deprived soon-to-be-travelers at the Airport

Walter shuts down the karaoke bar on our first night -- notice the house lights and sleepy KJ. (Actually, he was great -- complimented Walter, wouldn't take a tip, and wrapped up the night in high spirits.)

Detail on the Gateway of India

Taj Mahal Hotel

Mumbai Harbor

Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalya (formerly Prince of Wales Museum). I think we were the only non-Indians there. Fascinating stone carvings, Tibetan treasures, seriously scary swords, and some decaying English Paintings.

Buddha outside the Museum

Rumpled, happy Liz after Day 1

Tired and happy Walter after Day 1

Just a few initial photos. There's so much to see here, but I'm too busy gawking to pull out the camera most of the time. Plus I'm still too shy to ask people if I can take their pictures. That'll change, I'm sure.

Mumbai, for starters.

Until a few years ago, this was "Bombay," but in a move toward shrugging off the rusty shackles of colonialism, it's reverted to its native name. "It's still 'Bombay' to me," said a plain-spoken expat we met during our Seoul layover.

I realized we were in a foreign land when the steward opened the cabin door and native air filled the Airbus A380. Thick, humid atmosphere bearing unknown smells rushed in like an olfactory tap on the shoulder: you're in India, bub.

After clearing customs, we sought out the pre-paid cab stand, blithely ignoring the touts who shouted like carnival buskers at passers-by. "Taxi, taxi? I have a fine cab and hotel for you sir! Very clean!"

Three hundred fifty rupees (plus baggage fee) was our fare at the pre-paid stand. They gave us a receipt, and we headed into the parking lot. The local time was approximately 2:30 a.m., or 3 p.m. Pacific Time.

Make no mistake: I was very well aware that we're on the verge of monsoon season, and that hot, humid weather was to be expected.

But, damn.

A slender young man directed us to cab #677, driven by a quiet fellow with sparse gray hair who'd taken to using henna. I've seen other Indian men (even in San Francisco) use the same method, but it always results in a somewhat orange hue that always catches me by surprise.

The diminutive cab was a Tata, like most of the vehicles I spotted on the road. Here the guidebooks were right -- Mumbai drivers universally operate as if they have truly excellent karma, giving them nothing to fear in the next life. Many taxis (including ours) used their headlights like I use my horn -- only when they needed to get someone's attention.

Discounting the taxi's whiny transmission, the drive was quiet. There were quite a few young people walking along the highway and surface streets. There were many more, old and young, sleeping on any available flat surface -- across car trunks, in three-wheeled carts, on sidewalks. Many just slept in the shoulder of the road, but the man who appeared to be dozing on the narrow traffic median caught me most by surprise.

Small, feral dogs were everywhere, exploring trash piles, snoozing in the street, or just trotting from one spot to another.

As we drove through different neighborhoods, the scents would change -- a strong sulfur smell near the airport gave way to the pungent odor of decay, which was replaced by a salty, fishy smell a few miles later. I was most pleased when we drove through a district that smelled distinctly of Nag Champa.

Eventually, cab #677 brought us to the Oberoi Towers on Nariman Point. We'd chosen a Hilton-operated hotel for our first couple of days here. I'm not afraid of culture shock, but we knew we'd be seeking comfort after 24 contiguous hours spent on aircraft and in airports.

After check-in, we let jangled nerves settle while we inventoried the mini-bar, went through our bags, and remembered what we'd forgotten at home. Nothing critical, thankfully.

And then, we slept. Until 8:30 p.m., or thereabouts.

We woke and consulted our guidebooks, as well as the complimentary Time Out Mumbai that'd been left in our room. Time Out amazes me, in that the editorial tone is identical whether you're in Amsterdam, New York or Mumbai -- snarky and know-it-all. As a brand, Time Out is as consistent as KFC and Coca-Cola.

We decamped for a karaoke bar/restaurant near the Churchgate train station, but it was not to be found, despite the phone call we made before leaving. Instead, we backtracked to a place we'd driven past on the way -- Not Just Jazz By the Bay, a happening joint just off Marine Drive that does karaoke three nights each week. Liz had some sort of curry with rice, while I unself-consciously ordered "The Sultan's Favorite," a kebab plate with a basket of naan.

If I had to guess, I'd surmise that most of the patrons were cosmopolitan Mumbai residents and foreign tourists. The women's clothes were unexpected, given the guidebooks' exhortations for female modesty, but this is no small farming town or temple village, so midriffs and bare arms are a la mode in a club setting.

Not Just Jazz has a fine karaoke host who knew how to keep things moving. Someone would sing, then the DJ would spin something by 50 Cent, Will Smith or Black Eyed Peas, and then another patron would take the mike.

I sang "Green Green Grass of Home," and "She's a Lady," which was the last song of the evening. It was gratifying to get some props from other patrons as I headed back to my table each time, and I was the last singer before closing time.

They'd locked the front door, so we had to exit through the kitchen, stepping into a dank alley that led to the street. I headed for the first taxi in line, who quoted us a rate that was three times what we paid to get to the neighborhood a few hours before. Liz gamely tried to bargain with the driver, but he said something about a "night fee," foreclosing the discussion.

Liz got in the cab first, and two elderly women flanked me, begging. It did not occur to me to ignore them or to be rude. I made eye contact with both of them, and shook my head gently, but they did not stop.

Inside the cab, my door now closed, they kept asking:

Please, sir...
Salam alaikum!

I put my palms together and said, "Namaste." I've uttered the word before, always after a yoga class. But looking into the eyes of these women who'd always known poverty -- and probably always would -- the phrase took on a special significance:

The spirit in me acknowledges the spirit in you.

And now, we're back at the hotel. Liz is soaking in a hot bath, and I'm in the hotel's business centre so I can get this online, and maybe check email.

Tomorrow, the plan is to depart from a dock near the Gate of India and take a boat to tour the Caves of Elephanta.

?

Several hours before our flight, and I'm just now realizing that we're traveling around the freaking world here, people.

You know when it hit me? I was pacing back and forth in the rear office, trying to get the outgoing message to my cell phone right so people could get in touch with me while I was away.

So, I sat down and wrote it in TextEdit:

You've reached Walter's cell phone.

Sorry I can't take your call, but Liz and I are traveling around the world, and we won't be back until October 15.

Please don't leave a message here -- instead, email me at walterthom at aol.com

I'll get back to you as soon as I can.

Be sure to check out the travel blog -- without reservations.net!

Emergency?

Call my father at xxx xxx xxxx.

Thanks, and take care.

And then, a surge of awareness for which I was not prepared. Liz was at the laundromat, rinsing out a few things for the journey ahead. I called her to let her know that I had just had that moment. She gave me the equivalent of a hug/head pat over the phone and suggested that I lay flat for a while with my eyes closed.

We stayed up all night, cleaning, sorting, packing and backing up data. I think we're covered, but there's always something to forget.

And now, travel insurance -- serial numbers for the gadgets that will document this journey! Our ride to the airport gets here in 90, so I'd better get a move on.

Losing expectations, slowly.

"Travel mode" is the easy-going way of being I hope to slip into when I exit the car and enter the airport terminal tomorrow for our first flight, destination Mumbai, India.

I was so-longing another friend on the phone tonight while Liz toyed with our globe. She pressed San Francisco beneath her right index finger and Mumbai with her left. Looking down from a polar view, I reaffirmed that Mumbai's literally on the other side of the world.

People have been wishing us well -- the women at the storage facility where I rented a locker, the dude who sold me a compact padded case for our digicam, even the customer service rep at Comcast -- each generously wished us safe travel, and the experience of a lifetime.

(I suspected that the CS rep was actually in India, but I didn't have the nerve to ask. They have to put up with a lot of crap.)

This is the trip of a lifetime. So far. I don't think it would be fair to me or to the journey to hang that expectation on it -- the certainty that I'll come back a changed person.

In terms of my outlook and manner, it seems unlikely that I'll do a complete 180, but I'll take a 45, if that's what's called for.

Like all experiences, travel informs a person, but I don't think it can shape them entirely. Case in point:

Liz and I are in the waiting area of the Vietnamese Consulate, one of a jillion things we left to the last minute. Makes things more exciting. Anyway, in line ahead of us is a couple I thought I had a bead on.

He was tall, tofu skinny, and had a mandala tattooed on the back of his neck. I don't recall what he wore, but it had batik and/or tie-dyes. She had a Celtic something tat on her left arm and sported a tee that commemmorated one of where Phil Lesh and Friends gigged.

"Here are some people who've been around," I said to myself as they approached the counter.

I forgot about them and went over one of many countdown checklists until I heard raised voices from the service window.

"These visas are sixty dollars each? US?"

Much to my surprise, it was the lanky fellow.

ANNOUNCER: (V.O.)

Today, the role of the Ugly American will be played by Mr. Natural. And now, back to our program.

I thought I knew better than to read people based on outward appearances, but it's good to be reminded of my own prejudices from time to time.

It would have been satisfying to have gotten in the guy's face to say something like, "wow -- you've grown up into just a big a jerk as your father," but I don't know his dad, and getting into it with angry hippies in a foreign consulate is not my way of a good time.

Forewarned is forearmed.

So we went a little crazy at Drug Barn.

Among other books, I intend to browse this volume on our SFO -> Seoul -> Mumbai leg.

Remember, always offer your right hand in greeting. You know where it's been, or rather, where it hasn't.