Vaccinations

Flight booked and paid for? Check.

Visa application submitted and FedEx-ed? Check. 

Next on my list of preparations: Vaccinations. 

I wasn't really 100% sure I needed vaccinations. This was just one of the wives tales from the 50's and 60's I operated under. So I turned as usual to my friend, Google.

Does an American need vaccinations before travelling to India 

And right there, fourth link down, the CDC -- so I followed it.

Where I learned that I needed to get a Hep A vaccine, regardless where I'm staying in India. I should get a Hep B vaccine if I think I'll get a tattoo while in India, or experience the pleasures of an exotic new sex partner. I should consider getting inoculated against Japanese encephalitis and Yellow fever. And, I should consider getting a Rabies vaccine.

I logged online to my doctor's appointment site, pasted in a cleaned up listing of the CDC recommendations, and sent off my request for an appointment at the earliest convenience.

Dream 6

For days I let my eyes wander without interest along the shoreline on the starboard side of our open galley. It was awash in beautiful colors of flowers and cliffs and villages and vineyards and groves. Often I spotted ruins, evidence of civilized life hundreds and thousands of years gone, with no more interest than I might notice cars driving on the streets below my balcony at home -- all curiosity sucked from me like dirt by a Dyson.

Such was the awful, evil power of Incessa and her noise.

We seven rowers had remained in check since the awful spectacle of Dianna's outburst, Incessa's punishment, and Dianna's subsequent death-by-shark. I could feel the tension mounting around me, and so could Rolando, as I'd come to learn was the drum beater's name. His frantic hurried whispers implored that we make no ruckus against Incessa's noise, and that we learn to ignore it somehow -- as he had apparently done some decades anon.

Easier said than done, it was like fingernails grating on a chalkboard, like being awoken from a wonderful dream by simultaneous beeping of two hundred smoke and CO2 detectors.

My partner to the right, Katie, had been an acquaintance from the YMCA, and now we spoke sometimes in low whispers. She knew no more of how she arrived here than I. She feared she may be the next Dianna. I could see the growing distress on the faces of the captives around me, evidenced by highly raised eyebrows and darting eyes, fast shallow breath. All but one, front row starboard, seemed near a breaking point.

At evening just before our sundown water break I sensed a roar behind me as we pulled. I turned my head in time to see a large waterspout bearing down on our boat. With a movement like a cat the woman rowing behind me stood, stepped upon the stern deck and dove headfirst into the churning spout. Within an instant the waterspout collapsed in upon itself, became a swirling black drain in the water, and then smoothed out into a calm, glassy surface.

Incessa didn't even notice.

...I really don't see any need to expose myself to people who are different from me I don't mean expose myself in the dirty obscene sense I just mean why would I choose to socialize with people who are different from me it's just not proper the right sort of people shall we say don't look beyond their own community I already know how these people are I see it in movies and on the news they live in slums or in Brooklyn why do these people want me to eat their food I have no interest in going ashore here to eat the macaroni when I can get the same thing at Olive Garden I would never eat sushi it looks too weird the proper sort of people agree that it looks weird and that's how I know that the people who eat sushi are not the sort of people shall we say that I would want to expose myself to a foreigner wouldn't recognize the absolute of wearing a black suit as proper corporate attire why would I want to eat foreign food I'm sure the kitchen is very dirty I've never been in one of course but I have a knack for knowing these things ...

Two Week Turnaround

Applying for a Visa is not a very egalitarian experience.

Certainly the diplomatic relationship between the applicant's country of citizenship, the applicant's country of residence, and the country to be visited will play a major part in the successful processing of the application. This immediately establishes a certain pool of people whose applications will almost always be left in the inbox at the end of the workday.

Beyond this would be having the financial means necessary to warrant, in the form of sliding fees, your application rising higher in the priority pile.

One must weigh these prioritical considerations when first filling out the application, along with reviews you may find online, and anecdotes from friends or friends of friends.

I had three months before my departure to receive my Visa and Passport, and after tossing in a large helping of salt a la Lek's experience, I decided I would pay for two week turnaround.

Even if this became in actuality a two month turnaround, I would still be safe.

Dream 5

I was stunned after the violent death of Dianna. I kept pulling on the oar, we all did, but my mind was in a fog.

I stared off into nothingness for an eternity, coming to myself when I was visited the next morning by the time keeper with his ladle.

"Her name is Incessa," he whispered rapidly. "My mother sold me to her many years ago. She stops talking only when there is no one left to listen -- and then she crushes me to her breast, wraps her arms and legs around me in a smothering grip, and whines with fear until I pass out. And each time, when I awaken, there is a full contingent of eight rowers and we begin our journey again. I know not how you came to be here but I'm glad you are. I'm sorry that our fortunes are at cross purposes. I was a kind person once." He glanced into my eyes, and was gone. 

He shuffled back up toward the bow, took up his drum, and we began to row.

The noise was a like a vacuum cleaner trying to suction after its moving parts have been locked in place by strands and strands of long coarse hair.

 … a black suit is the only way for a woman to look professional in today's corporate environment I learned this is my recent master's degree program where I'm on the board and I still visit the campus as often as possible so that everyone knows me yes I haven't had a real corporate job in twenty years but things haven't changed that much the good things never really change I only wear Levi's like I wore in high school they are still the best still the most fashionable jeans look what are mom jeans I never shop in a discount store only the wrong kind of people would shop at Marshalls or Nordstrom Rack the right kind of people shall we say will only pay full price for items they find at the mall shall we say... 

I noticed ancient ruins, still standing columns, on a hilltop above the water, but my flash of interest in something larger than myself was sucked out of me by Incessa's never ending blather.

I caught the eye of the rower across the aisle to my right, and pointed her to the ruin with a quick jerk of my chin. She nodded in a tired and disinterested way.

All we could do was row.

Visa! Visa!

Upon receipt of the phone number I was able to quickly fill out my information through page 4, and finish the Visa application. After checking and rechecking the data I had entered to ensure validity, integrity, and completeness, I hit the button to submit and felt a moment of sheer elation.

A fleeting moment of elation, because only then did I comprehend that the Visa journey had multiple phases. Once again, using my aspberg-esque powers of concentration and focus, I worked step by step through the intricate process, printing the appropriate number of copies, signing the right spots, keeping certain copies for my records, including my passport and 2 inch by 2 inch photos in the packet, filling out and printing the prepaid FedEx shipping label. It was grueling and took hours to package this all up so that it would pass muster when reviewed by the Visa minions.

And then, I drove down to my neighborhood FedEx store on a Saturday afternoon, slid it all into a flat envelope, sealed it up, and sent it to my expeditor in DC.

And, I waited.

Dream 4

We rowed for three days and three nights. The monster continued to talk the entire time, without ever taking a breath and never tiring.

Twice each day, sunrise and sunset, the drum beater would pound out a clumsy riff and the drumming would stop. At this time he would carefully step around the creature --arching his body away trying not to touch it -- and careful to keep his eyes on his feet would bring a bucket and ladle down through the center of the hull. For a brief period we rowers were allowed to catch our breath, stretch our arms, and take a long drink of lukewarm water.

During this time the monster would take two deep breaths, lick her lips, and set down the megaphone to paw at her 'fro, pulling the sides and smoothing, as if massaging it so could create the miracle of turning her from Jan into Marcia. Over the ladle I saw her lashless pitiless black eyes. She would clear her voice and begin the noise again.

It was the sound of fifty colicky babies fretting and a jet engine chewing a goose.

Once during the first twelve hour shift, a woman I didn't know yelled, "Why are you doing this to us? Why won't you just shut up?"

The monster opened her mouth in a large operatic "O" and held a note the like of which has never been heard before nor since, and the woman who had yelled crumpled to the deck, curled into a fetal position and held her arms over her ears. After an eternity the monster segued directly back into the inane monologue she had been holding forth before the interruption from the rower.

The drum beater helped the woman, who I later learned was Dianna, back into her seat. "Don't try that again," he whispered. And with that he picked up the bucket and ladle, trudged back up the aisle, found his place on the bow deck and began the drumming anew.

 … it's the best bakery in town they have the most delicious frosting however I prefer the cupcakes from another bakery I love cupcakes I like lemon ones, and chocolate ones, and strawberry ones, and marble, and Black Forest, and German chocolate ooh and I like cupcakes with filling crème filling not jelly or fruit filling people who like jelly or fruit filling are not the right sort of people shall we say in fact I'm an excellent judge of the right sort of people shall we say I have friends well actually my husband has friends in another town and they know the best bakery in their town and we were there two weeks ago for a birthday party and they were very busy with the arrangements for the birthday party because they are very fine people and they do everything just so and they just didn't have time to pick up the cake so of course I said I would pick up the cake because I knew it would be a fabulous cake from a fabulous bakery because they are the right sort of people and so when I picked it up I saw that it was $150 I mean they have that kind of money to spend I couldn't spend that much money but they have that kind of money and it was just a ten inch round and $150 but it was from the best bakery in town and they are the right kind of people… 

The galley rocked side to side as if bumped. Looking to the right we saw a large fin slicing through the water. Dianna stood up from her oar and screamed, "silence at last!" and jumped overboard directly into the path of the shark.

The water came violent afroth, splashing pink tinged water into the galley, yet the monster did not slow her speech of death.

Dianna was only the first.

Dream 3

I focused my vision to the front of the boat and was amazed at the sight perched on the bow seat. I shook my head to clear the fog and looked again.

It was there all right. But what exactly was it? And how to possibly describe it.

Tiny pink hand-claws were holding a large cheerleader-style megaphone, haloed behind in what appeared to be a Jan Brady afro wig. The greater end was open toward the eight of us rowers. I could see down the tube, through the smaller end and beyond, and there spotted an exceedingly sharp pink nose and whiskers.

Visible below the opening was a torso covered with soft-looking grey fur, wearing a white cotton tank top. A puckering at mid-chest hinted at a training bra beneath.

Over its shoulders I could see a visibly morose man, eyes downcast and hopeless, sitting on the bow deck beating our rowing measure.

The mouse in the 'fro was talking nonstop.

Corporate accounts payable, Nina speaking. Just a moment. Corporate accounts payable, Nina speaking. Just a moment. Corporate accounts payable, Nina speaking. Just a moment. Corporate accounts payable, Nina speaking. Just a moment. Corporate accounts payable, Nina speaking. Just a moment. Corporate accounts payable, Nina speaking. Just a moment.

Dream 2

I found myself gazing into ripples of the most beautiful blues, greens and fuchsias on the edge of my vision. My body was gently rocking, and warm sunshine fell over me. And there it was, the unceasing unyielding noise, rhythmically accompanied by drumming. Still unable to place the sound -- five hundred fan belts squealing, sqeaking of bed springs coming from your parents' room -- it nevertheless rendered moot the magnificent collection of colors and warmth swirling around me.

I looked down and noticed my arms. My wrists were loosely bound to a smooth wooden pole, my hands grasped the shaft. Realization dawned that this was an oar of some sort.

I broadened my attention and found that I was sitting in the hull of a small Roman galley with a blue sail, configured with four forward facing seats on each side of the boat. I was third back on the left. Looking around I found there were seven other women positioned as I was, loosely tied to oars, hands gripping the smooth pole. I knew some of the women, others seemed vaguely familiar, and some were totally unknown to me.

Just then the incessant shrilling stopped briefly, someone attempted a riff on a primitive one note drum like a call to order, and a voice shouted "row!".

Like a thunderclap I I realized where I had heard the underlying rhythm before -- it was the sound the drum made when Ben Hur was held captive on that Roman slave ship.

The drum beater set the cadence, and the needy, wheedling jabbering began again.

We pulled in time.

The Dream

My vision cleared and I found myself looking into ripples of the most beautiful blues. Closer to me darker translucent indigo, royal, cornflower, farther away aquamarine and turquoise, rippling, rippling, melding and moving. My body was rippling, and warm. Warmth on my face and shoulders. Eyelids and ears.

As I turned my face up into the warmth I saw in the unfocused distance a visual cacophony of greens and greys and fuchsias, spilled together in abandon and pressing against rectangles of bright white, salmon pink, butter yellow, pale sea blue.

And always was the sound. The unceasing sound! A thousand gulls fighting for crumbs or the whine of dental machinery ... I couldn't quite place it but it was horribly annoying, insistent in its primal need to be heard. To interrupt and overwhelm the revelry of the beautiful colors and wonderful warmth of every creature within earshot. 'Pay no attention to the beauty that surrounds you, just listen to me, me, me!' it seemed to shriek and shrill.

It was then that the accompaniment started, and I knew I had heard this baleful rhythm before. I got a fleeting sense of Charlton Heston and then the vision was gone, chased away by increased stridency of the original clamor, fearful and needy.

And I awoke to the beep-beep beep-beep of my mobile. Lax had sent me the Indian phone number.

Arrrrrggghhhh!

But, I digress.

The next day, after a busy morning in which I didn't have time to hyperventilate over my still languishing Visa application, I received an email from Lax containing the heretofore secret identity of my Indian Reference. Immediately upon returning home that afternoon I logged into my expeditor site, following the links to the Indian Visa application. I input the new and assuredly saved Temporary Application ID. I breezed through pages 1 and 2 and scrolled down page 3 to enter my Indian Reference data, copy /pasting from Lax's email.

Name, full address including zip code and phone number of your Indian host

But. Oh my god.

Where is the phone number? Where is the phone number? Where is the full phone number with area code???? 

I immediately sent an email and text message to Lax. I need an Indian phone number -- I need an Indian full phone number with area code!!!

Arrrrrggghhhh! 

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! 

Aiyeeeeeee!! 

Aiyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!! 

Aiyee yai yai yai…. 

And so, my method for calming myself this night is to sing the Frito Bandito song… Until I have an earworm that will not die!

Deutsch schuhe!

I once had a dog whose cool, bored exterior barely covered a frenzy of inner anxiety, resulting in incessant lick-lick-lick-lick-licking of furniture and body parts and in noisy doga (dog + yoga) Ujjayi breath. The vet always said this breathing was how she 'calmed herself'. I thought about this as I sat in front of my laptop, holding my cellphone, waiting for Lax to provide me with an Indian Reference so I could complete page 3 of this freakin' Visa application. I needed to do something to calm myself.

I decided to review our flights -- making sure my travel plans are analyzed, charted, printed, collated, stapled, and spindled is very comforting to me.

Interestingly, the routes are different going and coming, and we have relatively long layovers in Dubai and Munich -- two airports I've never been in.

OMG just typing "Dubai" gives me shivers of excitement. But Munich, oooooh, Munich… Or should I actually say, ooooooh Germany! Specifically, ooooooohh Deutsch schuhe!

I like to buy shoes when I travel. They're great souvenirs -- reminding me of my trips, and usually very different from anything I can find at home. It's highly unlikely I'll meet my unAmerican shoes in the aisles and conference rooms of my job -- which is only one of the great reasons for shoe shopping abroad. The best ever international shoe buying experience I've had to date was in Germany, where the salesman said that my (normally considered large) feet were smaller than the average German woman. Hooray! Additionally, the pretty ankle-strap heels I bought there were well-made, comfortable, stylish, excellent at camouflaging the faults of (normally considered large) feet. In a word Wonderful -- and totally unavailable on the entire shopping information superhighway.

I would be spending six hours in a German airport. Could there be fabulous German shoes nearby????

And so I was thusly calmed and eventually lulled to sleep by my fingers walking through reviews of the Munich Airport, searching for shoes nearby, and fretting that six hours layover was too short a time for a traveler making international connections to safely leave the airport.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…. Perhaps I can extend my stay in Munich……..

Hyperventilating

And waited.

I had already lied to Lek once about my Visa app being in transit via FedEx to my expeditor and the Embassy beyond. I did it for her own well being. I knew that her bad experience had led to an especially rabid distrust of the goings-on behind the closed doors of the Embassy and of the Visa minions inside. So, when she pinged me to ask "sent the Visa app off?" I hardly thought at all before responding "yes". No need for anyone else to be hyperventilating over the delay in completing and sending the application.

There were obvious clues that I had lied. Had Lek been paying attention to my response she would have known that something was a little off.

As a person whose natural tendencies and job mandates asking "what does 'yes' mean in this context?", my response to simple questions sometimes get a little long, not because I have so much to say; I don't. I usually give the actual answer in bullet points because I think the average corporate worker and friend is so over-committed that he doesn't have the attention span for more than a sound byte. Yet I also want the listener to have full contextual understanding of the answer and how it was reached. So that there will be reduced confusion and few subsequent questions.

Lek was perhaps so relieved of that the application was safely in the hands of FedEx that she didn't even notice that she'd never gotten a one-word answer from me in all the time we've known each other.

And so I was the only person in the entire world hyperventilating over my again-delayed Visa. Which is a pretty lonely place to be. Just me and my brown paper bag.

Your Indian Host

I got back to my apartment as soon as humanly possible and logged into my expeditor site, following the links to the Indian Visa application. I input the Temporary Application ID I had so carefully saved and… Nothing.

So, I painstakingly re-entered the 15 position TAID I had clipped earlier with my Snipping Tool, checking and double checking against the snip, and… Nothing.

So, I reset the page and double-triple-deleted the TAID field… and so slowly and carefully entered the 15 letters and numbers, and… Nothing. 

It dawned on me that this was one of those times that my hyper-sensitivity uber-anal-ity to making plans and following steps, checking-and-re-checking, was overwhelmed by a simple human error of my own making. Apparently in my OCD-fueled panic over the requirement for actual travel dates, I'd forgotten to save the application for which I had already worked through Page 1 and most of Page 2. Damn, damn, damn! Nothing to do but start over, it was only two pages after all, and I still have my research notes on how to fill out the form.

At the top of the application is a new TAID, in case you are a new applicant, so I deleted my old application info which was saved off into OneNote, captured the new TAID, and re-started the app. I breezed through page 1 -- do not put in your social or your DL number. I skated through the spam filter to page 2. I filled it out all the way to the end, including my new, valid, and confirmed travel dates, and moved on confidently to page 3.

"Name, full address (including zip code) and phone number of your Indian host."

What? What does a tourist staying in a hotel do??? But that's a question for another day.

It was 6:30 pm EST, so my actual Indian host was asleep half a world away. And as luck would have it Lek would be moving from corporate housing into a more permanent apartment -- address yet to be determined -- between now and my visit. Add to this the pressure of really needing to get this application off to my expeditor for processing, and I reached the only logical conclusion that using Lek as my official-for-Visa-purposes-host was not going to work.

So, I sent a text and an email off to Lax: "Need name, full address including zip code, and phone number of Indian host in order to complete the Visa application. Please help. Help!"

And me and my OCD waited.

Booking the Flights

During the interim between when I was first invited to travel along with Lax, and when I gave my "yes, final answer", her husband and daughters had decided to come along as well.

Lax had always painted her husband's trip planning prowess as Type A Extraordinaire -- a categorization of how I like to plan trips -- so I knew that YL's flight charting would be beautifully balanced for convenience of departure, shortness of layovers (no 22 hour sit-ins for our travel walla!), reliability of airline, and price. He was spending a good deal of time tracking and reviewing the worldwide options.

And now his talents also need to be speedy - because my Visa application is in limbo-land waiting for those dates!

We chatted by email, I gave confirmation I was coming, really coming, really really coming, and sent over info I thought might be needed in booking my ticket - full name, passport number, DOB, etc. I set a limit on how much I was willing to spend on the flight, and we agreed that I would transfer the funds to his account after we received confirmation on the tickets.

And then I waited. And waited…. And waited. 

At least that's what it felt like…. Though it was really less than 24 hours. Made moreso because YL was sending his terrific news of successfully booking the flights to an email I can't check from the office.

So now I can get back to completing page 3 of 4!! And get this Visa application sent off to the Embassy!

(And only later did I realize that, like a doof, somehow in my excitement-terror of doing something kinda, sorta, almost spontaneous, it totally slipped my mind that I should put this flight on my points card! I can only imagine how many free trips to NYC I could have gotten out of this round trip to India!)

Visa and OCD

I chose an expeditor that has an office in Charlotte. I figured it would be much easier just to take a couple of hours off from work, head over to their SouthPark office, do my hula hoops or pogo stick or whatever worthiness exercise was required, and then head back to work. So much less hassle than having to throw discus in Atlanta or DC.

Once chosen, I spent a lot of time going through their instructions about how to fill out the application. This was especially difficult because I was constantly making mental notes -- it would have been much more efficient X way, ABC choice of words could be confusing. Truth be known it is a complex process -- but probably more complicated for me as a person whose job requires asking "Exactly what does 'yes' mean, in this context?".

I spent a lot of time taking notes. "Do not list your social security number, your driver's license number, phone numbers required will be full phone numbers with area code", yada yada.Once I felt confident I understood the instructions and the fee structure, I started the application.

Only to be stopped almost immediately. "Please scan in your 2 Inch by 2 Inch passport photo." Wha-? I figured out that I could attach a hardcopy photo to the app when I mailed it in, and thus saved, I moved on. To the next hard stop.

"What are your days of travel?"

OMG, I have no clue. We've talked about this in vague terms - June… three weeks in June… beginning of June to end of June…. But we've never talked actual dates….. I mean, who knew I would have to have actual dates... and to have actual dates I have to have an actual flight!

And we've never, EVER talked actual flights!

And I have to get the travel dates nailed down before I can move on to page 3 of 4 of the Visa application - omg omg I'm already getting behind! And I have to coordinate this with someone else! I'm not totally IN CHARGE!!! 

And my OCD rears its ugly head and gets ready to party!!!

Next Stop, Visaville

I was aware I needed a Visa to travel to India, in the way I was aware that India is hot and Antarctica is cold and it never rains in California, and I had heard many stories about the gauntlet one must run to get said Visa.

Most recently an Indian-born US citizen friend was moving to India for work and faced a never before disclosed decathlon of events to prove her worthiness -- including multiple embassy trips, pole vault, fees to an assortment of expeditors, high jump, roll over, play dead, and pat head while rubbing stomach. Her departure was actually delayed for months due to the rigor exercised on her Visa application. And so when she urged me to get the Visa application submitted ASAP I had no doubt that hurry-up-and-wait was the name of the game.

When you Google 'Indian Visa', you can scroll down past a dozen or so links to the official Government of India Online Visa site, where you can complete your online application. But if you're the curious sort like me, you would probably wonder what's up with these other links being higher in the response than the official Government site. These are the expeditors.

The business of an expeditor is to make your Visa application faster and easier than if you go it alone. Usually they have an office in the city of the Indian Mission that will be responsible for shepherding your particular application through the process (depending upon where you live). I would also believe they have experience with all types of Visas, and relationships within the Mission. And so I chose to go with an expeditor.

Decisions, Decisions

It wasn't really as easy as all that deciding to go. I took the weekend to work through all my tangled thoughts. Before now I never understood when someone would tell me "I'm confused" about making a decision. You make a list of the options, go through the pros and cons, perhaps assign some weight or priority, and the decision is clear I always thought. Making the decision to go to India at this time in my life was the closest I've come to being "confused" about making a decision -- and perhaps "conflicted" is actually a better word.

First off, I'm not very spontaneous. I like to PLAN. And while the trip is still months away, this decision feels like an act of spontaneity. Usually a flight across the pond is at least a year in the making for me… this is almost overnight!

Then I had to tackle the reality of my bravado. I make these grand statements that I fully intend to carry through -- when the time comes -- if the time ever comes….. "I'm going to retire in Italy."  "Next time I get downsized I'm going to spend three months in an ashram in India."  Will I really go through with these big statements -- who knows. Who knows if I have the courage to back up my mouth -- or if my eyes are bigger than my stomach!

Typically I'm really good at putting on a brave face and powering on when faced with the opportunity to do something new and exciting, all the while underneath I'm a quivering mass of nerves.  I've taken beach vacations alone. I've gone to NYC and stayed in hotels alone. It always works out great! This trip wouldn't be alone -- I would have an experienced travelling companion and would be staying with friends. Going with all this support -- especially for my first foray -- is the ideal way to go. Certainly any apprehension I may have about the total foreignness (to me) of the culture, can be obliterated by the knowledge that I will probably never be alone, I will be taken care of by friends who have proved their immense hospitality to me time and again.

And then I went through the I-can't-be-away-from-work-four-weeks argument -- and solved it with the but-I-can-work-at-our-office-in-India solution. I mean, what a fabulous team building exercise!

And so here is my chance to take this trip I've long anticipated. Perhaps it's not as lengthy and painstakingly orchestrated as I prefer, and definitely  not in the nebulous future timing I'd expected.  But what's wrong with shaking things up a bit? 

So I decided. Let's do this! Dammit!

I dreamed of India

I can't remember exactly when in my life I decided I liked the idea of India. I think at some point there was a subconscious mashup of my Indu-exposure into this nebulous entity I thought was intensely cool.

John, Paul, George and Ringo's journey to the Maharishi's ashram in Rishikesh and the subsequent news reports of hippie pilgrimages to Delhi and Goa played a big part, as I was a hippie from age five -- as much as a kindergartener can assume a cultural and political identity separate from his parent's. George's deep connection to Hare Krishna and meditation was of particular interest. His Holiness the Dalai Lama's midnight escape to Dharamsala was as well, because any guy who's lived 13 lives and chooses to settle there -- well, it must be a really cool place. And Gandhi, 'nuff said.

My entire life I've been drawn to clothing with Indian sensibilities. The 60's in America was a decade draped in Indian fabrics and colors. The Beatles for sure. I think I remember the Monkees wearing Indian style shirts on their show. And Nehru jackets were everywhere on the boob tube, from villains on cop or spy movies to cheesy singers doing Doors covers on variety shows. The 70's, when I actually could make my own choices about what to like and how to think, saw my classmates wearing braided leather sandals barely held to feet with a single toe ring and an ankle strap. And the piece de resistance for me, were the Indian cotton shirts I ordered from tiny black-and-white ads in the back of magazines, cotton gauze kurta's with appliques of swirly flowers that I wore with corduroy Levi's and long jingling earrings. In the 80's Pier 1 was stuffed with racks of Made-In-India clothes, from bright long loose rayon pants to gauzy skirts and dropped skirt dresses. I was a regular shopper. Even today my friends and co-workers know that I always appreciate a little sumpin-sumpin from the motherland to add to my closet collection.

I came to the food relatively recently -- I've been a lover of Indian food for about 10 years now - even trying my hand at recipes I find online. I especially love biryani, tikka masala, giant paper dosas, dal makhani, samosas, and mattar paneer. I LOVE those little egg-shaped pastries in which you drop stuff and drizzle vinegar, mmm mmm! The rice, omg, the rice! As a Southerner I was brought up eating rice with every meal, and light and non-sticky basmati rice is empty carb heaven! I could eat it alone -- with nothing in or on! Throw along a basket of aloo naan and I could fall into a carb coma rivalled only by Thanksgiving!

It's been a lifelong long-distance love affair, and I'm so excited to meet India in person!

Road Trip!

I've always been captivated by thoughts of India. The sheer foreignness to my own tiny life and experiences was overwhelming while also being alluring. The spice, the heat, the colors, the fabrics, the food, the culture, the mythology and history. And so for years India has been on my list, in the bottom of the bucket beneath the American and European hot spots, relegated for some future as yet unknown.

Until my friend Lax IM-ed me at the office to say "I'm going to India to visit my father. Come along."

My immediate knee jerk response was, Oh, I can't do that. But why not?, my adventurous side asked.

As I counted through the list and countered each objection, I begin to think it actually was possible for me to take this long anticipated trip. Though not at the time in my life I had imagined… and not in the manner I had imagined. And hey, what's wrong with some spontaneity in my otherwise ordered, scheduled, bits-on bits-off life?

So I said yes. Let's do this!

This the story of my journey to India. The plans, the anticipation, the dreams, and the reality. I hope you enjoy it…. I hope I enjoy it!

(I was a little late in putting my blog site together, so I will have a number of postings in quick succession until I catch up with real time.)