Tofurkey

Leaving Asia, Leaving My Girls
Why such a delay in posting this one? I blame the oysters, baguettes, ice cream, sheep cheese, candied figs, blood sausage, grilled zucchini, broccoli pasta, and ridiculously tasty wine of Bordeaux.

After a surreal 6 hours in downtown Vienna on a layover from Delhi, we flew into Istanbul. The city straddles the mighty Bosphorus with Asia on one side and Europe on the other. It was the perfect place to say a fond farewell to Asia since India was more of a "don't let the door hit you on the way out" situation.

We spent four days enjoying the charms of a truly first rate metropolis - the stunning beauty of the mosques, the vibrant grand bazaar, the fantastic meals, the echoes of the calls to prayer, the apple tea, and the sea views from our roof. Our hostel was in the touristy area of Sultanahmet and it was strange to suddenly be surrounded by loads of American and European travelers. They were all discussing their recent experiences in Greece, Spain, or Bulgaria and I felt quite wistful that my time in Europe would be so brief.

From Istanbul, we made our way down to the southern coastal town of Kas. It met all of the criteria for a Mediterranean paradise - pebbly beaches with turquoise water, ancient ruins, charming sun-dappled streets, and bright purple bougainvillea everywhere. We loved it immediately.


The beauty of the place was marred only by the fact that I was leaving the trio at the end of our time there. I remained stoically cheerful until moments before I boarded the bus out of town. When I realized I wouldn't be seeing Susan and Kenna for several months, I found myself shaking with small sobs. I'd become closer to them than anyone else in my life and we'd seen each other at our most fragile. I could not have asked for better travel companions - bon chance, ladies.

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Northern India - Part 2

Goats n' Guns


"You look like Hillary Clinton," said the border guard as we crossed a mountain pass into Kashmir. I don't, do I?

After a grueling 14 hour drive through the area that Hillary's husband once deemed the most dangerous in world, we reached Pahalgam. I suspect that ponies outnumber people in this quaint little hamlet nestled in the Kashmir Valley. Despite the heavy presence of men with guns, the primary danger we faced was from the scorching sun, which turned my nose, toes, and fingers a deep crimson color.

We spent a blissful week there, the peace and beauty diminished only slightly by the poopy diapers attitude of the three brothers who controlled our program. When you're told "Bread is out of season now" or "I'm waiting for the internet man to call back," the best response is a grin and a side-to-side head bobble.

Not many western tourists venture up into Kashmir but it was definitely the highlight of my time in India. Just don't attempt the Srinagar airport unless you really enjoy a nice strip search.

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Northern India - Part 1

Hunks n' Monks


After the chaos and heat of Delhi and Agra, we headed for the mountains of Himachal Pradesh. McLeod Ganj (near Dharamsala) is the home of His Holiness the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government in exile. There were still garbage-eating cows and Indian tourists asking for photos but the similarities to the rest of the country ended there.

McLeod felt like home to us with mist, mountains, and the smell of tall trees. We arrived there after a pleasant overnight train ride and an unpleasant jeep ride up extremely twisty roads. As we were wandering around near the Dalai Lama's house (H.H. was not at home - probably off shmoozing with indie rockers), we met a very sweet Buddhist monk from Nepal who became our mascot/spiritual guide for the next couple of days. He accompanied us on a mellow hike up to a waterfall where a large posse of foxy Indian men were enjoying the cold water. There was a stark contrast between the earnest innocence of our monk friend and the raw sexuality of the young hunks. Later we sat around on the monk's mattress and he introduced us to some of the deeper truths of the Dhamma while his roommate fried us a delicious omelette.

The Ganj was definitely a backpacker scene, complete with a coffee shop/community center/music venue that was straight out of my counter-culture childhood. We decided to move on as quickly as possible. Our hotel was run by a fella from Kashmir with a grim scar on his neck. I never did discover the cause but I suspect it contributed to his apprehensive demeanor. He arranged a package for us (never again!) to his native land and we set off at 5 am the next morning.

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