An A(adult)TCK Thing

Reflections April 7

I’m thinking about underwear. I skyped with my 23-year-old niece yesterday. She just landed in Amman for an internship with ACTED, a French NGO, and had the day to herself before starting work. She said she had to do laundry because she is running out of clean underwear. Now, I just returned from a 35-day trip to Nepal and India and I washed out my undies every night. I often do this at home too, thereby preserving the color, lengthening the life span, and possibly preventing shrink. Where did I learn to do thus, from whom? Probably from traveling as a kid with my family, from my mother.  It must be a TCK thing.

I suggested to Hillary that she wash them out herself, just use soap, don’t worry about having proper detergent, it still works, that bar of generic soap in a hotel room, and when she gets settled in one spot she can figure the laundry thing out.

Thinking to myself that I would still wash out my own underwear - to have to go to the laundry for the sake of little things, no.

I am curious about how many women do wash out their own under garments, at least while traveling. I just never know the norm, sometimes I think less so than others, but perhaps many feel like this, or else they just don’t think about it.  My husband recently told me he often did not know what was in my head. Well, it’s not that deep.

The underwear - it’s way better to wash a pair each night so they don’t pile up and then I have to hang them over the shower curtain and the back of chairs and on window latches and, if they aren’t dry in the morning, whoever comes to fix up the room will be faced with flags of panties and contemplate them in some way. How could they not? Even finger them to feel the material, think about her own underpants, and look at this one, a little dingy, even a small tear in a waistband.

A travel writer bragged that she went around the world on 1 pair of undies. This seems very risky to me. I understand that the article’s point was how little one can pack for a big trip, but still. Anything can happen, accidents of liquid from within or without. Spills and leaks. My brother making me laugh so hard on car trips and there hadn’t been a rest stop for 6 hours, that kind of thing.

More likely though it’s those squat toilets, or balancing behind a thin bush hoping the other bus passengers are not watching your shiny white ass.  Haste interferes with accuracy.  Sometimes the stream is just not straight. I never could figure out why. Volume same, direction askew. Or, it’s the last chance to urinate for miles and miles and you force out all the dribbles. Look up dribble in the dictionary. Take my word for it, you need a spare.

How much room or weight does one pair of medium-sized underpants take? This is not the point because I am not that travel writer on the cutting edge of packing light. I am a normal, mostly, female traveling in a foreign or not-so-foreign country always with a back-up pair of panties.

‘Course the other trick is the panty liner-a recent discovery of mine, why it took so long, I don’t know. The prospect of paperless toilet stalls prompted this. Yes, I have Charmin tissue in a neat little package in my pocketbook, but do you think I always remember to grab it? Having a weighty bag swinging over my shoulder is not helpful in most bathroom scenes, and wet floors from that curious spray nozzle and heaven knows what else are not conducive to setting my bag down. Hence, my bag sits in the car with my husband or goes over his shoulder while I find the Memsahibs. (Maybe I need to rethink a handbag aka backpack.) Anyway, the little neat strip of extra protection works great, and when you rip it off, voila, clean panties. So, I’m betting that travel writer had some of those along, just to cover her butt.

Re-entry

April 3 continued

Where are all the people? I have to check my watch to make sure it isn’t still 6 am, and I am lost in some time warp. No, it’s almost 10.  Few cars, few people. This airy generosity of space seems wrong.  

I should be looking at the shoulder-to shoulder occupants of a mini van right next to me; or watching a mother nurse her baby while she rides sidesaddle behind her husband on a motorbike; or waiting for cows to move over; or trying to pass a tasseled and bedecked tractor pulling a cart full of bricks.

I’m almost the only traffic. It's all relative.

Home

April 1 to the 2^nd and now it’s the 3rd

15-hours non-stop Delhi to Newark, 45-minute flight to Manchester NH - 28 hours door to door. Left at 11 at night and arrived home at 11:30 in the morning, tried to stay up ‘til evening but after unpacking and then wandering aimlessly, Gracie and Teddy the cat hot on my heels, I crashed around 3 and slept for 16 hours.

The BEST thing is that I am writing on my laptop and I have apostrophes back in the right place.

May attempt food shopping. Can’t wait to drive my car.

Our last day in Delhi, we wandered Khan Market and ate lunch in a restaurant owned by a friend of Krista's husband - great wall paper.

The market boasts cheap prices-shoes and clothes, soap to electronics, popular destination for locals and tourists. If you are thinking about opening a shop here you will pay more per square foot than on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. 

I will let everyone know if I survive shopping at the Brattleboro Coop today - I have to remember to stay in my lane and not to honk.

Bollywood

March 30 Sunday night

Bollywood party for AhJay's 21st birthday, nephew of Bonnie and Tony. She again dressed me and added Dennis into the equation - he looks pretty damn good in a kurta.

AJ invited 45 of his friends from England where he attended Eaton and now is about to graduate from college, Durham, I think. In any case, each guy friend invited a girl guest and as we pulled up to the gate of the party villa, 2 buses were discharging scads of young men and women in Indian party wear - unlike the bird world, the girls outshone the guys, all peacock colors, no pea hens in sight. And, were they excited at the scene that greeted them? Photo shoots and exclamations of awe.  Lights swinging from palm and banyan trees, tents like little harem sites, sofas, food circulating, a stage with dancing girls whose legs and mid drifts got barer as the music ramped up and almost but the very old and the infirm danced. Before you could even walk to the bar, a waiter bedecked in a white turban would refill your drink. Buffet dinner at 11pm. 

We left a little after midnight - almost early! 

Question - is this Dennis dancing, or waving goodbye to India?

 

Party

Saturday continued....

Party Extravaganza

The wow factor hit us full in the face. The party was "just because." Bonnie's niece threw this extravaganza at her home and two hundred or more of us enjoyed the magnificent celebration centered around her favorite singer Sonan Kalra and the Sufi Gospel Project. The music, a convergence of drums, sitar, flute, guitar, piano-like keyboard, their voices, and the light show that flitted over the players and the palm trees, created some magic-the sound spun a web and we were rapt. 

We sank into seats on the long sofas that were three-deep in front of the stage. Other guests layered out behind us to the outskirts of the manicured lawn and flower gardens. I have never seen dahlias so huge.

Sonan happens to be a Sikh like Tony. No turban but females also are not supposed to cut their hair. Her religious belief suffuses her music. The truth is all. Love is all. All is one. All religions valid. Everyone get along, okay? 

Waiters circulated with trays of appetizing tidbits from chunks of tandoori chicken to crunchy prawns and savory eggplant and vegetable concoctions with dipping sauces.  Bars were set up at either end of the expansive lawn which was sprinkled with table-clothed tables sprouting bouquets of flowers. 

The buffet dinner served at 11pm overwhelmed me with choices. I managed. Tony handed me a popsicle-looking thing that tasted like banana and was filled with nuts. I did not dribble on my dress.

After Sonan's two encores, the music continued with local voices and talent. 

We got home at 2 am. India time runs differently than American time when I seldom last until midnight on New Year's Eve.

Back to Delhi

Sat March 29 The Uppals, Krista, Bonnie, Tony and Arjun

 

Another day of firsts - smooth super highway from Agra to Delhi, straight shot on a road where cars stayed in their lanes except to pass (without using their horn, mostly), no cows or monkeys or pigs or dogs wandering, or vehicles that moved under 65 miles an hour. Hitting the traffic on the outskirts of Delhi changed our pace. These outskirts are expanding dramatically - we must have passed hundreds of thousands of high rises under construction, "integrated cities" where the growing population of middle class citizens can live without having to venture into the heart of Delhi. Our middle class is shrinking. Of course, the poor and poorer, and the rich and super wealthy are global facts of life.

Speaking of privilege, I asked Bonnie if she could make a hair appointment for me - a month of hard water and sun and heat, and a big party to attend our first night back in Delhi, warranted a splurge. We both went to the salon at the Oberoi. 

The hair appointment morphed into a spa experience with a head and back massage. After a talk about my hair and a shampoo, another  gentleman in a white shirt with a Nehru collar and gold name tag took me to a calm room apart from the busy blow drying and cutting and coloring and chattering of women getting their toes buffed and nails polished and eyebrows threaded. He hydrated and conditioned and massaged my head. While all that good stuff seeped into my roots he massaged my back and this sent me into a room of my own.

When he finished, he snapped his fingers beside my ears and I opened my eyes and returned.  Three different operators meant three different tips which was almost beyond my mathematical skills. Especially in my state of bliss.

Bonnie picked out orchids from the florist on our way out of the hotel and we were off to home to relax before preparing for the  8:30 party.  

Bonnie said Indian fancy wear was in order and she dressed me. 

The Taj Mahal

March 29 Saturday

Our last day of scheduled anything, barring the flight home. 

Groaning at the 5:30 am alarm, we made it out the door sans breakfast. Yash drove us and Gopal the  guide to the Taj in five minutes. It took another 45 minutes to navigate the line to buy tickets where an altercation broke out-some shouting and pushing which just added to all the excitement. (There is a line for locals and one for foreigners who pay more.) 

Then the15-minute walk to the entrance - we had the option of a two-wheeled camel-pulled cart. Then separate lines for men and women where we gracefully submit to a pat down by security.  

It was a fun crush. Gopal dragged Dennis down the men's line squeezing around others because some ticket holders had jumped the queue. Like driving in India, you cannot be passive or patient, because you will not get anywhere.

What can I say about the Taj Mahal - it's spectacular. Gopal guided in a steady stream of English of which we only understood half - enough to be able to fill in the blanks. He also gave us disposable white shoe covers - the Indians go barefoot. We weren't given an option. 

I do not remember wearing shoe nets when I visited with my family in the 60's. I'm not sure we even took off our shoes. I do remember a lot of standing around while my father waited for his tripod and camera affair to take the longest photo in the world to capture the sunset over the Taj. 

I remember I sat on the side of the reflecting pool and dangled my feet. And creeping around the white marbled dome imagining a man who would spend a fortune and 22 years building me a tomb. What had I done to deserve that? And what kind of measure of love was this epic edifice. Obviously, it was about him.

Arriving in Agra

March 28

30-minutes along the road to Agra from Bharatpur is the must-see Fateh Shikri, at least it is a must-see by Yash, and we agreed and are glad. Built by the Mughal Emperor Akbar in the 1600's, this fortified ancient city was completed in 3 years but only occupied for 12 due to water shortage. At that time, this complex was larger than London.

The Emperor had 3 wives: one Muslim wife to bear a son and heir and large house, a Hindu wife whose house was tiny but her compensation was to be nearest to the big guy's house, and a Christian wife, whose domicile was medium-sized - all religions intertwined and balanced.  Of course, he had a really big harem. 

Mansingh Hotel in Agra- part of a chain and the  most Western-like one that we have stayed in - has issues, as they say. We opened the window and when a pigeon tried to enter, I shooed him away and the window hinge broke and we had to put the window back in place, gently. The refrigerator is cool to tepid in temp, and we only discovered this after taking a short excursion in a tuk-tuk  to a shop to buy a bottle of wine. The prices here are absurd for wine and, like my craving for a pizza or a burger, I want a glass of wine instead of  beer. 

We are sort of pissed at the hotel because we paid for wifi in the room and it doesn't work. The manager said she would send someone up, for what we wondered, and no one came. She also said she would suggest some restaurants which served continental cuisine, and later told us, when we asked, that she didn't know of any - that we should eat here. 

When we left for our walk around the neighborhood, the new person at the desk told us there was no wifi in the rooms. Hmmm. But we are certainly welcome to pay for wifi and sit in the lobby which is freezing cold. I can't make any generalization about the hospitality business in Agra, only about this hotel which seems more suited for bus tours. This has been a first.

View from our room at the Mansingh at sunset in Agra

Dennis bought a 6-dollar leather wallet in the shopping arcade off the hotel lobby, and he actually quibbled about the price. It's a very nice wallet, flat and not too many slots and pockets, just what he has been looking for. I need to get him home soon.

Breakfast thoughts

March 28 Friday

The chicken and veg spring rolls at dinner last night were the best we'd ever had - freshly made (I had already finished my sweet corn vegetable soup and Dennis his staple of the trip, fried rice) when  they arrived, the waiter saying he had given us us two instead of one. One could feed a family of two. Steaming hot, just fried they were full of thinly sliced peppers and onion and cabbage and chicken and the green leaves of cilantro that are in every dish, and some other unidentifiable things and perfectly spiced to taste exactly how the idea of a spring roll tastes before it lands on a plate under my nose.

For lunch, we were craving western food - I will say this out loud, the same food gets boring, and right now I am done with buffet- style or any style Indian food. If there were a McDonalds near by, I would jog to it. And I don't jog. I have not been in a McDonalds in 30 years to eat, only to use their convenient toilets, but right now I could sure choke down a fish sandwich and some fries.

We asked where the best hotel in Bharatpur was and if they served lunch. Yash dropped us off and we wandered the grounds of this palace turned hotel and found a monster dining room and sat at a four top. The long tables set up for 30 should have lit a warning in my head. The waiter came over and we ordered a beer to share and he pointed to the far end of the room. Buffet. Indian food. chicken curry, saag paneer, rice, curd, mixed veg, dal - okay, it was good, it's always good in varying ways and nuance, but begins to taste the same. The rice pudding for dessert was good too, as always.

We fought our way around the tables packed with tourists who had arrived by bus - four buses.

However, when I get back to the states, I still won't have to go to a McDonalds - except to use the toilet.

Birder's paradise

March 27 Keoladeo National park

The rickshaw ride, and walk, through the bird sanctuary was as good as I hoped- not even one little tradeoff. The ride was slow and smooth, the walking more an amble.  Cloud cover kept the temperature down, although it was only 7 in the morning. Babu our rickshaw driver, has an eagle eye for spotting birds, plus we got lucky with Soran, a naturalist and guide, lugging his telescope. 

Soran rode his bike alongside us, sharing his knowledge. Will I remember all the names of all the birds we saw? I promise I won't list them - Dennis wrote down 40-plus names.

I know I saw a spoonbill, and a duck who hailed from Siberia, and a black-necked stork. Hawks and owls. okay, I'll stop. Green bee-eaters and parakeets. Jungle babblers. Like me, so says my husband. 

We went through dry land then wetlands. This former waterfowl hunting ground of the Maharajas was a destination of visiting dignitaries. One party with Lord Linlithgow, the then Viceroy in 1938, shot 4273 birds with 39 rifles. Historical record. The park became protected in 1971 and a World Heritage Site in 1985.

We saw antelope.  A purple heron, grey one too. Greater spotted eagle and a glossy ibis. Greater cuckoo and a long tailed shrike, a yellow-footed pigeon and a white-eared bulbul.

Bar-headed goose visiting from Mongolia. He'll be leaving soon, like us.

Bharatpur

March 26 Wednesday

Checking out of Khem Villas, we are intact. Bird bids goodbye at breakfast - but only to snap a few pomegranate seeds off my plate.

Road pretty good, only falls apart in the towns where fruit and vegetable sellers and tractor repair takes place almost in the road, in front of more permanent shops.

Drive to Bharatpur blessed with a visit to Abaneri a stepwell - meaning you step down into the well which is over 60 feet deep, or you could when it operated as a water source and spa 

until 1959 - it was built in the 9th century AD. A living design.    

Toilet was welcome too, a squat but okay. I'm getting pretty good at balancing although the real trick is holding pants up to keep cuffs dry while pulling pants down to get the business done - sort of conflicting objectives.

Big brick business closer to Bharatpur. All that smoke pouring into the air unimpeded - we probably know how to hide our pollution better, or only notice if it's in the backyard.

Small business by musician father and dancing daughter at entrance to a roadside restaurant obviously built for touristing travelers, like us. Excellent toilet.

Birder's Inn not-promising environs turned around once we entered its innards.