Things matter.

The entire time I was in Japan, I was constantly marveling at the small, mundane things the Japanese do. The attention to detail. So many random instances come to mind.

Watching Gen Yamamoto suspend his cocktail shaker over my glass, just as he was about to pour my drink and pluck an offending ice cube out of the glass. Deftly replacing it with one he liked more.

The woman at Hiro Coffee that set my coffee down, stepped back and then took a moment to align the rectangular plate perfectly square with the edges of the table.

The woman at the hotel in Nara that happily washed the eight wheels of my roller bag before I left the front desk to go to my room.

Things matter.

Ryoan-ji is a Buddhist Zen temple in Kyoto and the rock garden there is thought to be one of the finest Zen rock gardens in the world. 25 meters long, by 10 meters wide, it’s composed of fifteen rocks and arranged in such a way that you can never see all fifteen rocks at once, no matter your viewing angle. Big packs of uniformed school kids were there, shoes off, index fingers aimed at the rocks as they counted. Ichi, ni, san, shi and so on, until they got to juushi, or 14. They could never see the 15th stone. I was in a corner taking this picture when one of the young school girls sitting on the edge of the temple, shifted and a piece of paper drifted off her lap and landed near the edge of the garden. None of them said a word or made a sound. They stared at her, she stared at the paper. She pushed her glasses up onto her nose, slid back and got on her stomach, reaching down from the deck. She strained as far as she could and was a few inches too short. Silently, she tried again before she accepted she wasn’t going to reach it. She inched back, sat up and stared. Oblivious to anyone around her, locked onto the paper with a laser like focus, she sat quietly, head down, resolved to solve the problem she created. Her friends looked at her and she just stared at the paper, not a single sound out of a one of them.  A few moments went by and she pulled her backpack onto her lap, unzipped it and took out a towel. She got on her stomach again, reached out and flicked the towel onto the paper, trying to drag it closer. The towel would land on the paper, but it’d slide off as soon as she started to drag it to her. She sat up, went to the backpack again and produced a thermos of water. She moistened one corner of the towel and assumed the position. She flicked the weighted corner forward onto the paper and waited just a beat before she slowly reeled her catch in. The paper scraped along the smooth border of the garden, then stopped, escaping the towel. She tossed the towel one more time and caressed the paper to within her reach. She sat up, capped her thermos, folded her towel and placed both back where they came from. She turned around, reached down and picked up the paper and went back to her schoolwork as though nothing happened.

I think if that happened in the States, whoever dropped it, would have apologetically hopped down, picked it up and hopped back. The paper was resting on concrete, inches away from the garden, nothing would have been disturbed in the process. It’s right there… But things matter in Japan. Whether it’s convenient or not, this 10 year old girl knew that. It was instinctive to the point that nothing needed to be said between her and her friends; just solve it.

Before I left the States, I watched some YouTube videos on Japanese culture and etiquette. This young woman said, “If you’re in doubt about how you should act, think about this: "Is what you’re about to do going to affect anyone else?” If so, then don’t do it. She went on to explain that the Japanese think in terms of the collective, whereas we think of the individual. This made sense when I watched this young girl retrieve her paper, she didn't act in terms of how difficult it'd be for her or it’d be quicker to just hop down and get it. Stepping off the deck and into the garden space would have been disrespectful, even though alternative was difficult, so she had to get creative in the way she solved her problem.

I left the rock garden with a ton of admiration for this young girl. I couldn’t get over how she handled herself, especially when my first thought was, “I’m close, I can reach it.” I thought I could set one foot down and nab the paper. After watching her, I was ashamed I even entertained the thought of stepping on the sacred ground.

I was strolling the surrounding gardens and I came upon a small shrine on the edge of the property. No bigger than a garden shed, it was off the paved walkway and down a dirt path. I thought I’d check it out and as I got close, I could hear the sound of water, signaling a temizuya nearby. The temizuya is where the purification ritual is performed when one visits a shrine. You take the long handled ladle, fill it with water from the spout or scoop water from the basin. Then you pour the water onto one hand first, then the other, then you pour water in your hand and rinse your mouth, purifying your inside and outside before coming to the temple or shrine.

This one was a small, with a single ladle and a basin no bigger than a washroom sink. I walked up on it and realized there was a teenage schoolboy washing his hands. The schoolboys wear a military-like school uniform. It’s black, with brass buttons and a short collar. They look sharp and disciplined. He didn’t know I was there and I hung back, not wanting to crowd the space. He carefully washed one hand, the other and then rinsed his mouth. He respectfully set the ladle down and turned to head towards the shrine. As he turned around, he was startled to find me there. He immediately stopped, placed his arms at his side and bent forward, bowing deeply and slowly. He held the bow for a couple of seconds, eyes fixed on the ground and he slowly stood up. Ramrod straight, he motioned towards the temizuya, quickly bowed again and bounded up to the shrine. I watched him as he said a brief prayer and then turned, sprinting towards his buddies who had been waiting at the end of the path, immediately transforming back into a teenage boy.

I was struck by the fact he didn’t know I was there, didn’t know he was being watched and yet he showed such reverence for the process and the shrine. It was a small shrine, almost hidden, no one would have noticed if he washed his hands or not, or even if he prayed for that matter.  It didn’t matter to me if he bowed or not. I’m a foreigner, an uninitiated spectator and yet he treats me respectfully, finally making the gray hair payoff.

None of what he did mattered to me, but it mattered to him. Respect mattered to him. It mattered to the girl that let slip a piece of paper. It mattered to her friends. It matters to Japan. Things matter and I’m going to miss that.

Green Things

I keep walking on the right.

There are times I go back and forth in my head so many times, I get myself talked out of the left side and then I’m back to walking on the right. It sounds simple, but I tend to overthink things… Imagine a peaceful stream of compact people, all dutifully going in one direction. The stream is confined to the corrugated yellow lines etched in the concrete, respectfully flowing along with everyone in their place. Suddenly a barge, full of ramen, steps out of the restaurant and crashes into the flow, plowing ahead just long enough to force the stream across the yellow lines.

“Sumimasen! Sumimasen! Excuse me! I’m so sorry” 

Some smile and bow, some just move over. I liked the businessman the other day; walking along on his cellphone and without acknowledging me as he stepped out into the street, he muttered in English, “Left side.” No BS and right there he shamed me enough to remember my left from my right.

I try to fit in and not stick out. Or, I should say, I try and fit in as well as someone resembling a white refrigerator can when standing among a chest height sea of black hair. There are so many things going on around me that I don’t understand. Yesterday there was a big crowd in the street and I walked over to investigate. I got in line to see what I was I was missing and as I got closer, a young woman approached me and said, “130 yen.” I gave her 150, she instantly produced change and I was pushed forward to a man handing out a paper wrapper with a green, mushy, rubbery biscuit coated in peanut dust resting on it. I said my best, “Arigatōgozaimashita” and got out of the line. I had no idea what it was, every sign was in Japanese and everyone around me was Japanese and so excited about the green things. I moved to the outer edge edge of the chaos, wanting space to ponder. As I was about to take a bite, the bag of trash that I’d been carrying from Kyoto spilled off of my suitcase. There is zero trash on the streets of Japan and the foreigner just dumped his empty bag of weird salty, fishy snacks onto the street. In India, I saw parents tell there kids to just drop their trash where they were. In Japan, I’ve yet to see trashcan, but it’s the cleanest place I’ve ever been. So, the first trash I’ve seen on the streets is mine and it’s in front of a crowd. I frantically pick it up, shamed and embarrassed, I decide to eat my green thing. As I bring it to my mouth, I inhale a mouthful of peanut dust and cough, blowing peanut powder all over me… Now people are staring, so I bite in, thinking this will appease whichever Shinto god I angered. As I was trying to chew it (they're rubbery) and figure out what I was eating, this tiny lady smiled, reached up and patted my arm as if to say, “It’ll be ok.” Her smile was so comforting. I felt like I was no longer the evening's source of amusement, everyone around me shrugged and went back to their green things as if she’d given me the OK for trying. She looked at me with that look grandmas give you when they don't understand what you're doing, but it's ok. I’d embarrassed myself enough for one day, so I secured my trash and worked my way out of the crowd and started to wander off, headed off to my hotel making sure I was on the left side of the sidewalk.

I was here.

Depending on the day, I remember the way this trip came together differently. I have my alternative sets of facts that I trot out and they always seem to make sense at the time. Now that I'm looking at the runways and storage yards of Heathrow from my beige and brick airport hotel, the beginning of this trip feels so far away, I don't feel connected to it. But I know in the beginning it was all about getting out and having an experience.

India seemed the place to do it, so I pieced together an itinerary (here's a map of my trip) that'd hit historic and cultural spots, hoping to get an idea of what makes their country theirs. They live their life and hold onto their culture and traditions without regard for the encroaching world. Arranged marriages, temples, religions… an endless wall for my western way of thinking to butt into. Every day I saw something I'd never see at home; cars driving against traffic, cows sleeping on highways, elephants walking down the street and no one but me noticed, it was just their life. No one noticed the elephant, but the big white guy... that brought people out to stare. I’d wave and smile, (being big and white was the perfect ice breaker) they’d smile back and come to me for a chat.

When I’d meet people, there were the standard questions, “What country are you from?” “Are you married?” “Do you have children?” “What is your job?” And “How much do you get paid every month?” That first batch of questions have to do with family. In the land of arranged marriages; wives, sons and daughters and their well being are measures of accomplishment, pride.

“Yes, I am married. I have a son and a daughter.” Indian head wobble.

“Wife is air hostess, son is chef, daughter is nurse.” Indian head wobble with verbal approval.

“Son is married.” Indian head wobble with verbal approval and big smile.

“Daughter has boyfriend.” Younger Indians gave the Indian head wobble with verbal approval and big smile, older ones were sort of perplexed. Boyfriends and girlfriends don’t exist in arranged marriages. But then they would dwell on it for a second and then smile approvingly.

The last questions about job and money were just facts, that’s all they wanted. The first time I was asked, “How much money do you receive every month?” I took a deep breath, keeping in mind the average daily wage in India as of 2016 was $3 US and I told him. He did the math in his head, converting from dollars to rupee and said, “That is more than many Indians make. I am glad for you.” And that was that. No guilt, judgement or recrimination. No follow up questions, asked and answered. Back to my travels and if I’ve enjoyed India so far. I realized, “How much money do you make?” has as much weight as “What is your favorite color?” They’re just curious. 

Speaking of money, I loved the Indian bills. I guess if you have the smiling face of Mahatma Gandhi on each bill of your currency, you're making a statement about your values and who you are. I couldn't tell you what George Washington, Grover Cleveland or William McKinley stood for, but so many people I met could tell me something that Gandhi said, something that they think about, something they believe in and try to live. For me, seeing where Gandhi lived, where he was killed and where he was cremated was kind of a pilgrimage for me. When I was in my late teens, early twenties, he had a big impact on me. Post Steven Biko and mid-apartheid, I gravitated towards his concept of non-violence as a means of change and became so interested in him. I had a drawer full of t-shirts with his image, (Skinheads for Peace! Which kind of goes against what he would have wanted...) posters on my walls with his quotes, his talisman. When I was at the Raj Ghat, I had the perimeter to myself. Almost every one walked in, saw where he was cremated, said a prayer and left. I'd traveled to the home country of an idol, I wanted to see it all, so I was strolling around the edges when I came upon the Seven Social Sins etched in stone, Hindi on one tablet, English on another. I had the poster on my wall when I was younger and I instinctually reached out and placed my hand on it, just wanting to touch something that had such a huge impact in shaping my values. I sat by it, wondering if there was something I should do to commemorate the moment. I decided to take some pictures just for myself. The talisman was nearby too. Seeing those two where he was cremated felt like a special day.

Here are the Seven Social Sins:

1. Politics without principles
2. Wealth without work
3. Pleasure without conscience
4. Knowledge without character
5. Commerce without morality
6. Science without Humanity
7. Worship without sacrifice

This is Gandhi's talisman, a guide in situations of doubt. He said:

"Whenever you are in doubt, or when the self becomes too much with you, apply the following test. Recall the face of the poorest and the most helpless person whom you have seen, and ask yourself, if the step you are contemplating is going to be of any use to them. Will he or she gain anything by it? Will it restore him or her to control over their own life and destiny? In other words, will it lead to swaraj (freedom) for the hungry and spiritually starving millions? Then you will find your doubts and your self melt away."

I can’t separate those two from the lives I saw and the people I met. I had an Indian cab driver take me from the airport to my hotel while I was at Heathrow. We were talking, he was so excited I had visited India. He asked me how I liked it. I said I loved it. He said, “India is a poor country, but we are a happy country.” That summed up so much for me. Poor, happy, caring, empathetic, engaging, thoughtful… I saw poverty far worse than our worst, but the people were making the best of it and trying to carve out their existence and get ahead, no self pity, just pushing ahead with a smile and a head wobble.

The government’s travel slogan for India is Incredible India, you see it everywhere with various pictures of forts and ruins. They should put the faces of their people on the billboards. I can’t wait to go back. Incredible India, incredible people.

Thanks for following along, I can't begin to express my thanks for even the slightest interest.

Anytime, anywhere...

I was on the train to Mumbai and I met a really nice young man, Sharrod, a soldier traveling between assignments. We were talking about all things India and when I mentioned I didn't understand cricket, he was aghast. When he picked his jaw up off the floor, he said, "Cricket? You don't understand cricket? Cricket is the soul of India."

I loved the way he said that, "Cricket is the soul of India..." So much passion and love for his country and favorite sport with a real respect for both institutions. The picture above was on the beach in Goa. I really enjoyed south Goa and wish I'd set more time aside to do less. My plan was to park myself on the beach for a couple of days, not take too many pictures and turn my brain off. Vacantly occupying my time with as little to show for it as possible. Mission accomplished, but I wouldn't complain if I'd taken longer to accomplish less.

After I arrived in Goa, I grabbed a Kingfisher and headed down to the waters edge, I was standing there when young men began appearing from every direction; Hindi, laughs, trash talking and lots of gestures. In an instant, three sticks were cut from the trees, jammed into the sand, a milk crate at the other end and a line in the sand was drawn. Teams were formed and it was on. I watched for a while, the numbers dwindling the later it got, until I could barely make out two young boys hitting fly balls to each other. The next morning they were out there, this time they were recruiting any tourist that could play, same for that evening. I'll miss their passion, their willingness to play no matter what the conditions and to find fun where ever it can be made. I'm glad I got to see India's soul.

Fathima Bee

I was in Hampi, an ancient village in the state of Karnataka and one of many UNESCO World Heritage sites in India. It’s a cluster of ruins from a previous world, scattered among boulders and palm trees, it has an oasis feel to it. It’s a really small town, a few dirt streets and a hodgepodge of buildings just strewn about like the boulders around it. It’s like stepping back in time 100 years. I was standing on the porch this morning when the vegetable lady came by, carrying a wide basket on her head. It was full of her eggplants, red onions and tomatoes. She pulled out an ancient hand held scale, like Lady Justice and dropped some weights on one side, onions on the other. Held aloft, she eyeballed it and dumped the contents into my neighbor’s bag, the weights back into her basket. My neighbor helped her get the basket back onto her head and she was off. I helped my neighbor carry the vegetables upstairs, she already had a big vessel of water balanced on her head and needed one hand to steady it, the other to hold onto the side of the ladder we were climbing… Please hit me with a scale weight if I ever complain about the drive into town to get food…

Anyhow, I took off to see the ruins. I’d wanted to see Hampi. The pictures of the chariot car surrounded by boulders, the capital of a kingdom that was now no more, the temples… It was one of those places that held my interest and was different from so much of what I’d seen. Vinny the tuk-tuk driver drove me to the ticket window location and dropped me off. As I walked up, I saw a woman sitting on a low stone wall, getting ready to eat her lunch. Lunches in India fascinate me; for something so universal, they couldn’t more different from ours in the west. All across India, I’d see people carrying their lunches in tall, stacked, cylinders of shiny stainless steel, secured by the handle on top. It looks so simple, yet really clever. A flick of the lever and the handle flips down, the cylinders are unlocked and the straight sided bowls of chapati, dal, rice, pickle and aloo bagi can now be unstacked. I was watching out of curiosity when she looked up at me and said something in Kannada, the local language. I waved the Indian wave and gave her my best “Bon appetite in Hindi, even though neither of us speak Hindi” smile and stuck a ₹500 rupee note through the ticket window, “Foreigner please.” The girl in the ticket window pushed my hand back, saying “Nai” which is “no” in Hindi. I knew that word! She pointed to the lady eating her lunch and she motioned to the container on the top of the stack. It had a few small eggplant, swimming in a green sauce with pools of red oil floating on it. She pointed to the eggplant, then me and made a hand-to-mouth pantomime. I dropped my camera bag as fast as I could and sat next to her.

Fathima Bee.

What a wonderful woman. She took a steel plate that I know was her plate and set it down. She ate off of a lid as though she planned to bring along a plate for no reason whatsoever. She lifted off the eggplant container and there were a neat little pile of folded chapati hidden in the next level. She dropped one on the plate and spooned the eggplant over it. Eggplant, onions, cumin, garlic, turmeric; heaven on a stainless steel plate, being fed to me in the middle of nowhere by a beautiful woman with a beautiful soul. I tore off a piece of chapati and pinched down on some eggplant then deftly scooped up some sauce. Yeah, the ladies were impressed… I didn’t realize it, but I guess I was enjoying it too much. Fathima said something to one of the women, who then said to me, complete with the appropriate hand signal, “Slow down.” I heeded and Fathima spooned more eggplant onto my plate. There were so many layers of flavor, I made sure to slow down and savor the taste as well as appreciate the moment and what I was experiencing. More eggplant, more chapati and pickle. Pickle is a ubiquitous condiment and everyone makes theirs differently; Fathima’s was perfect, the right amount of bite and less salty than what I’d had. I was feeling guilty eating all of her food, but she just kept piling it on and then she lifted the chapati layer off the lunch pail and there was a container of dal, lentils, a staple. Hers were mixed in with greens and fried with chilis… It had the earthy taste and texture of lentils, but there was a smokey bite at the end thanks to the chilis. I was mopping up the last of the dal when she unveiled the last layer, rice. She scooped the rice on to my plate and then poured the last of the eggplant sauce over the rice. It was a wet, sloppy pile of rice soaked in goodness. I was trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do with it. A security guard had come over, along with a few other curious onlookers and she said to eat the rice with my hands. I shrugged, wondering why I thought there would be another way and pinched into the mound. As I extracted my hand form the pile, there was a collective gasp. “No! No! You mix. Mix!” And the security guard motioned in an exaggerated way, to mix in a circle, then fold over, THEN pinch… I swirled the rice around in the sauce. At first, there was all sorts of consternation and angst, I wasn’t really mixing my rice very well. I tried a different pattern and there was a sigh of relief, everyone watching could breath deep and relax. The mixing was improving. Far from good, but improving. I did the scoop-pinch and brought it up to my mouth, everyone laughed and I knew I was doing something really crazy and whacky, like turning my wrist or meeting my mouth halfway… Oh the shenanigans…

When I finished, Fathima took my plate and then my hands. She suspended my hands over my plate then poured her drinking water over them. Running the water slowly over my palms and fingers, I rinsed my hands after that delicious meal. Then she took a cloth napkin and wiped my hands dry, swirled the water in the plate and tossed it out, using the napkin to wipe the plate before she put it back. I wanted to give her a hug and say thanks, but I thought it best to ask. She got very serious and said, “No. Married.” So I extended my hand and said thank you. She has the best laugh and throughout the meal I knew I was the butt of their jokes, but I considered it an easy trade for that meal. We took a few pictures together, had a few more laughs and it was time for her to get back to work and for me to get back to the nothing that I was so urgently doing. We waved bye-bye as I walked away. I gave it my best thank you in Hindi, from the laughs I knew I blew it, from the smiles I know they got it.

Mumbai

I had a day in Mumbai, the city formally know as Bombay. Friends were putting me up in their flat and offered to take me sightseeing for the day, complete with Darren, my tour guide. I was glad to have a local with me and I’m certain he wanted to spend his school holiday with me, what 11th grader wouldn’t? Oh, want to know an added benefit of bringing along a teenager? After our introduction, he asked for my phone. A click here, a swipe there and a minute later, he handed it back to me. “You have wifi now. You’re using my phone as a hot spot. Don’t worry, it’s free and really fast.” Sweet. The cab picked us up and we set out.

“What do you want to see?”

“Show me your Bombay.”

His Mumbai. The first landmark we drove by was his church. India is such a religious country. Hindu, Buddhist, Sikh, Jain, Christian, Muslim… If you can think of a religion, it’s probably here. Goa was colonized by the Portuguese, so there’s a strong Catholic presence there and it spread to Mumbai. We saw a lot of churches and temples, it’s nice how they all coexist; Muslims treat Christians like Methodists treat Episcopalians and vice versa. Our first stop was a church, one of the older ones. Even midday it was occupied by the faithful, the stalls outside were in full swing, selling trinkets and candles. Mumbai was the first time in India I’d seen the western trappings of wealth. The expensive cars, the high end stores, the homes; it could be Los Angeles or any big city except for the proximity of the destitute. In the states, our poor and wealthy are kept at a distance, but in Mumbai they’re neighbors. We stopped at the beach and I walked down the steps to take in the view. I passed a shack and didn’t even look at it, my peripheral vision saw a snack stand on the beach, nothing more. I walked down a few steps and stood there. When I turned around, I noticed the shack and saw a home. Corrugated steel lashed to scraps of wood, tarps covering the gaps in the roof and walls, all held in place by rope and stones. There were two young girls in front, one washing clothes and the other waiting for the hose that was being used by some boys to clean themselves. The young girl washing the clothes looked up and stared at me with such dignity. Not an ounce of shame or self pity. She had a job to do, this was her life. She smiled, giving me a nod when I motioned to take her picture, then put her head down and went back to work. Just past her shack, slotted into the skyline and mingling with the skyscrapers, was our next stop; the Ambani house, Antilia. The largest and most expensive house on earth. It’s so tall, you can catch glimpses of it from various spots around the city. Three helipads, a garage for 168 cars, a staff of 600 and 4 million square feet of living space. For a family of five. After, we cruised the neighborhood and looked at the walls surrounding the homes of various Bollywood stars. We ended the day on the beach. Packed full of locals escaping the heat, there were people as far as I could see. Everyone was with a group; families, friends, hawkers and couples spilled out of the taxis that lined the street. Heading to the water’s edge, some were cautiously keeping their distance from the water, some stripped down to their underwear and raced in, others just walked in wearing their clothes. Be it a sari or a burka or business casual, the just walked and didn’t stop until the water was up to their knees. On the way back to the cab, I noticed a shack on the beach. Goat in the front yard, laundry hanging up and drying on the roof, I wondered who lived there and what their life was like. I took a quick picture and as I was walking away, a man came out. Somehow he noticed the big white guy standing in his yard and waved. I waved back, “Namaste.” He smiled, waved back and said, “Namaste.” It had been a long day, the cab driver dropped me off, I grabbed my camera bag and walked up the street past the kids playing cricket. Time for a cold Kingfisher.

My shadows...

I guess I’m big in India. The first time was at Jama Masjid, a group of young Muslim men asked if I could “take picture.” I put my camera up to my eye and they said “No, selfie.” I was confused, then I realized they wanted a selfie with me. I hadn’t seen any other bulky, awkward, middle-aged white guys, so I figured they must think I’m a unique commodity. I hope they never come to the states, they’ll realize they wasted a perfectly good selfie. Anyhow, it happened again and again and now it’s not even something I think about. Pictures, lots and lots of hand shakes and just everyday pleasantries. Someone told me I’m a curiosity, something they don’t see a lot, so they want to engage. Anyhow, everyone has been really gracious and I’ll ride the star train until I get home and no one notices me.

I was in Khuajuraho to see the temples and needed a day to get caught up on some things; post office, ATM, re-up the rupee on my phone, get a shave… Just stuff. When I walked out of the hotel, I saw these guys staring at me and I knew what was coming.

“I like your sunglasses.”

“What do I have to eat to be big like you?”

“I am very small and thin, can we trade bodies”

“Where are you going?”

“Where are you from?”

They were pretty funny and King Kong, the kid in the hat, had game. He spoke perfect English had a line and come back for everything, he was obviously the ring leader and asked if they could come with me. They were such nice kids; nonstop chatter about cricket, Indian girls (“I ask an Indian girl out, I get the slipper…”) school, farm life… They took me through the bazaar and showed me their town. A 12th grader, two 9th graders and I think the little grubby guy was 8. We just walked up and down the streets, talking about their lives, asking me about life in the States. “No, I don’t know Justin Bieber.” They talked about how they wanted to travel, what their dreams were, what they wanted to be when they grew up. King Kong had plans, he wanted to be a teacher. He also worked on the family farm, took care of his siblings and went to school.

We were walking up a street and there was a big sign for ice cream, featuring bars and cones. It was really hot and that sounded so good; so I told my posse, we’re getting ice cream and followed the sign downstairs. When I went through the door, I realized it was a nice, sit-down restaurant. The owner rushed to greet me and I asked about the ice cream sign. He took me in back and proudly showed me the freezer with the various containers of ice cream, running through the list of flavors. They only sold bowls of ice cream for desert, they didn’t have anything to go, so I thanked him and started to walk out. The boys had followed me in, but didn’t venture back with me and the ice cream sommelier. They were clearly out of their element and were trying to figure out what polite is for this situation, when the owner and I walked into the front of the house. The owner saw a pack of boys and told them to get out. They weren’t welcome in his restaurant he said. He turned to me as we were walking, extending his hand for a handshake and mid-motion, brought his hand and attention back to the boys.  Waving, he shouted “Get out!” Then he turned to me, extending his hand and apologizing about the kids. I took his hand, gave it a really firm squeeze and held his gaze for a moment, “No problem, no apologies needed. Table for five please. We’d like ice cream.”

They ordered mango.

The little grubby guy was last to finish. I’ve never seen a kid take so long to eat ice cream. He was so meticulous about each perfect spoonful, licking the spoon clean before surgically inserting it into the remaining ice cream and carefully slicing away just the right sized bite. I paid the bill and we left. On the way back, I went to one of the barber stalls for a shave. For about $3 US you get a perfect shave along with a scalp, face and shoulder massage, not to mention all the potions and lotions. (Tell me again why I was sweating TSA and my safety razor?) The boys spilled into the stall without hesitation. Like a pile of puppies, heaped on top of each other at one end of a tiny bench, they were lost in an old Bollywood film, blaring from a beat up TV, precariously perched atop a VHS player so big, it looked as if it might take down that end of the stall. When I was done, we walked the short distance to the hotel and I thanked them for the fun day. I took this picture on the way back.

The next afternoon, I was coming out of the hotel on my way to the temples. King Kong was there. He had been waiting all day to invite me to his sister’s 15th birthday party and bring me to the farm to meet his new baby calf. It was after my train left, so I said I couldn’t make it. He asked if he could have my email address. I gave it to him and told him if he wrote, I’ll send him the picture. His face lit up and we shook hands and said goodbye, him waving and saying goodbye as he ran down the street. I hope I hear from him.

Happy Holi!

After I had my first world meltdown, I decided to venture out onto the streets of Varanasi and experience Holi, or what was left of it. My plan was to walk up to the main street in the neighborhood and wade into the crowds. When we were driving through them, I was sort of dumbfounded by how dense they were. Scooters, cars, water buffalo, tourists and locals had packed the street so tight, there was no where to go. When I was planning the trip, I had imagined myself having a quiet Holi and visiting with some Indians, enjoying the time with them. That option seemed off the table and I’d resigned myself to the fact that it was going to be the Mardi Gras version. As I hit the corner, I looked up the street and even the crowds I was hesitant about has dispersed. I was still embarrassed by my pouting over the cab ride, so I told myself I’m having fun, no matter what happens, but it seemed like everyone had packed it in and it’d be an early night. There was a convenience store at the corner and I hadn’t eaten anything, so I stopped and got a snack. In my most nonchalant Hindi, I asked for a bottle of water and some Lays Masala Magic potato chips. (they’re so good… smokey, spicy BBQ, Indian food flavored potato goodness) “Ek bottle paanee dena and masala chips.” The man behind the counter didn’t say a word, he just turned and got a bottle of water and the chips. As he handed them to me without any expression, he said, “Whiskey? You have whiskey? Happy Holi whiskey?.” I said yes and he produced a bottle of Blender’s Pride, India’s finest. Then, out of the periphery stepped a man. “Happy Holi! Where you from?” I said the states. Another guy got up and came over to me, he extended his arms wide like he was coming in for a hug, but he put me in a gentle head lock and rubbed red paste on my face. “Happy Holi!” One after another, the guys that were standing around, came up to me. Each taking a smear of red or orange or yellow paste and dotting my forehead with an embrace and a “Happy Holi!” All of a sudden, I was having the Holi I wanted. We sat and passed the bottle around, finishing one and opening another. Eventually, as is the case in India, the power went out and as if on cue, everyone threw their arms up in the air yelling, “Happy Holi!”

Back on, “Happy Holi!”

Off, “Happy Holi!”

On, “Happy Holi!”

Off. “Happy Holi!”

And then the lanterns came out. Up and down the street I could see clusters of silhouettes, each with a with soft, warm glow coming from the middle of the pack. Throughout the night, we sat in the light of his lantern, drank whiskey, laughed and teased each other. Trash talk is universal, no translation needed. With each cup of whiskey, the shopkeeper filled my hands with the most wonderful, crunchy snacks. Something about drinking at 2am and how much better snack food tastes. When the snacks and whiskey were had run out, the man in white called it, telling us to leave as he rolled the door down. We ended the night, standing in the street, hugging and shaking hands, Happy Holis all around and  planning to get together tomorrow, making promises none of us had any intention of keeping.

When I walked into the hotel, the night manger looked at me and asked, “Sir, your first time in India? How do you like India? I see you have Holi. You like India?” I caught a glimpse for the first time and saw how red my face was. I knew they got me good, but I had no idea. “Sir, how do you like India?”

“I love it. Goodnight and Happy Holi.”

“Happy Holi, sir.”

I'm a jerk.

I was going to write about the end of my loop through Rajasthan, then I was going to write about Amritsar. But here I am in Varanasi, on the banks of the Ganges River. It’s one of the oldest cities on earth and considered the spiritual center of India. Yesterday I traveled from Amritsar in the northern state of Punjab to Delhi by train and then flew to Varanasi. I had arranged with the hotel to pick me up. When I landed, I walked outside and read all the signs. None with my name, so I went back in. I was out of rupee on my phone and couldn’t re-up until Monday when the Airtel store opened, so I was considering my options when one of the porters, Sanjay, walked up and asked if I was stuck. I told him what was happening, he pulls out his phone and calls the agent in Delhi that helped me book the room. After a rapid-fire exchange in Hindi, he says a car is on it’s way and goes back to work carrying other people’s stuff. A little while later, he comes by and asks what hotel I’m staying at. I tell him. He calls the hotel, more Hindi, more “A car is on it’s way.” About ten minutes later, I see him walking through the crowd on his phone, he walks up to me and hands me his phone. He says, “It’s your hotel, he call me.” And walks off, leaving his phone with me, saying he’ll be back later. The man at the other end apologies profusely, “I am so sorry sir. It is Holi and my driver is drink too much viskey and can’t drive.” Fair enough, hard to be upset when a business is honest with you about the situation. He asks me to get a cab and he’ll reimburse me. Sanjay comes back and says cabs are hard to come by, “It’s Holi.” An hour goes by and I see Sanjay pushing through the crowd. “Your car is here. Happy Holi.” I go outside and Chandar tells me he’s so sorry for the confusion and puts my bags in the car. “I am home having Holi with my family, my boss call and he say to me to come to airport now.” I wasn’t listening; I was over the wait, the delays, the inefficiencies… I just wanted to get to the hotel and experience what was left of Holi, which was why I’d come to Varanasi when I did. I wanted to experience it like they did, but instead, I was waiting for them and missing my time. Chandar asked me to please sit in the car and he would be back in two minutes. He was sorry. Just two minutes. So I sat and waited. Two minutes became five, five became ten, I looked around. I could see Chandar standing in a group of men talking. Ten became fifteen and he was still talking to these men. I got out of the car and walked over to the group. “Can you unlock the trunk? I’d like to get my stuff out of the car and then I’ll find a cab while you visit.” He begged me, “Please, no sir. Please, only two minute.” I said to him and the group, “I’m tired of waiting. I sat for two hours waiting for my ride, now I’ve been sitting in the car for twenty minutes. I just want to get to my hotel. You want to talk, give me my stuff and I’ll go my own way. Thats it. I just want to leave.” And with that, he and another man walked me to the car and the three of us got in. Chandar said, “Please sir, I am so sorry. This is my boss, he ask me to wait.” I looked at the boss with contempt and gave a “Yeah…” when he introduced himself as I turned my back to him.

The drive in has me in front steaming, Chandar driving and Boss in back. Chandar asks if its ok if he drops Boss off. We leave Lal Bahadur Shastri International and head towards town, the two of them talking in Hindi. Boss wants to know why I was upset. I go over it again. He says it’s Holi, cabs are expensive tonight. I turned my head half way, he doesn’t deserve eye contact. I tell him I don’t care, I’ll pay whatever it takes to get out of the airport if he can’t do it. For the first part of the drive, Chandar isn’t getting a tip. I’m staring straight ahead running through the conversation we’ll be having when I tell him, “No service. I had to wait a long time.” He’s asking me something. “Sir? You like tea or water or something?” He has a really kind voice and a sweet face and I realize he’s sincere. He wants to know if he can get me anything. I throttle back and take a breath. He’s being civil, I need to be too. “No thank you.” As we’re driving along, he slows down in the middle of an intersection. I look up the street and my very first thought is that it looks so destitute. As I’m looking at the dilapidated buildings, he says, “That is my home sir. If we time, I would like take you to my house for meet my family for Holi with us.” I ask about his family. In his soft voice, “Sir my babies is very beautiful. I have beautiful wife and two beautiful girl and beautiful boy. My family is beautiful.”

We veer into oncoming traffic, everyone moves except the cows and Boss gets out. He comes to my window and apologizes. “Happy Holi.” As his door closes, Chandar turns to me. “Sir, I am poor man. I am poor, but not cheat. I am so sorry. My boss, he call me and make me go. I am having Holi and I go.”

I am having Holi and he make me go…

All this guy wanted was to get back to his family and celebrate Holi. He wasn’t trying to ruin my time, he wasn’t trying to be inconsiderate. I’m mad because I sat on my ass and waited. I waited, while a guy who carries other people’s stuff for them called for me, because I was out of rupee. While this man with the sweet voice and kind face was torn from his beautiful family. Because I was waiting…

I don’t know what went wrong, I don’t know why I waited, I don’t know why Chandar was talking to those men while I was sitting the car. All I know is I was being a jerk. I asked Chandar about his family, about his life, his faith. I wanted to give him a chance to share with me what made him happy, what made hime proud. The crowds for Holi were so thick, it took forever to navigate the people, cows and scooters. When we got to the hotel, Chandar apologized again. I said, “Chandar, I am sorry for being angry. I was wrong.” My bag was bigger than he was, but he got it into the hotel. I had to pay him 1,100 rupee for the ride. That was the arrangement with Boss. I had a 2,000 note and he made change, returning my 900 with the most heartfelt apologies. I took the change he gave me and gave it back to him, pressing it into his hand. He said, “No sir! No! I no give good service! I am so sorry!” And he tried to push away. I took his hand, pressed the money into it and closed his hand around the cash. I put my hand on his shoulder and told him, “I’m sorry about the way I acted, I forgive you. Everything is ok. Now take this and hurry back to your beautiful family.” His face lift up, he smiled so big and in his soft voice, he said, “My family is very beautiful.”

Happy Holi.

The Most Romantic Spot in India

I started my loop through Rajasthan in Jaipur, generally considered the gateway to Rajasthan. From Jaipur, I went to Pushkar, one of the oldest cities in India and one of five sacred Hindu pilgrimage sites. Because of it's location, significance and history, it's been steadily becoming a destination for tourists as well as pilgrims. I was pretty bummed to get to such an important cultural and historical spot and find Bob Marley prints, pizza and crunchy hippies gushing about how amazing Pushkar is... My exposure to this point had been Delhi and Jaipur, now I felt like I was in some tourist spot that happened to have a lot of Indians working there. I pinned my hopes on Udaipur, my next stop and billed as The Most Romantic Spot in India. Udaipur is a big city, the romantic part is near Lake Pichola and when I was dropped off, I started to wander. Udaipur felt more Indian than Pushkar, but the glut of tourist shops killed any romance the area might possess. I stumbled upon a beautiful hotel with a rooftop bar over looking the lake and finished my day there. The next morning, I wanted to get away from people like me and I headed to the south end of the lake. I posted up on a bench and just sat there watching the world go by. Indian families and groups of friends strolling the promenade, newly engaged couples posing for pictures amidst the sleeping dogs that scattered the boardwalk, a guy on a bike with an old tape player hanging around his neck rode up and down, blasting old Hindi love songs through blown out speakers. This was much better.

A van pulled up and I watched the door fly open as everyone inside pushed to get out. I remember noticing how happy everyone was, thinking I'd be thrilled to get out of that tiny van too. The guy in the picture, crouching down at the far right, was the first person I noticed. He was so tall and gangly and walked with a strange gait; kind of dragging a foot while he also limped on it. While I was watching the tall man, the guy on the opposite side of the picture, wearing aviator sunglasses and vest, crab-walked into my field of view. Crab-walk doesn't do it justice and gives crabs too much credit. What he did was remarkable. Sitting on the ground, feet in front of him, hands wrapped around his ankles; he'd pick up both ankles, move the pair sideways, then his body would follow. He flew from the van to the wall with a huge grin on his face, a guy running on the stubs of his knees was chasing him and more followed. All hurrying to the wall, all with disabilities unlike anything I'd ever seen and all with smiles on their faces. There was one caretaker for all of them and when he wasn't carrying someone, he was helping someone in the their wheelchair or lifting someone onto the wall or taking a picture. Everywhere I looked I saw limbs and stumps flying, bodies hoisting, picture taking, trash talking, laughing, smiling... I couldn't look away.

They'd been on the wall for a bit when I realized, they were trying to get a group shot, so I got up and walked over. I held up my camera and asked if I could take the picture; not for me, but by me, for them. I wanted them to know they had my respect and weren't some freak show. They were so enthusiastic, letting me group them and compose the shot. The lighting was horrible, I don't know if it could have been worse... dead noon with the blazing Indian sun just behind them. So I decided to overexpose the shot, blowing out the background to expose their faces. I was nervous, I wanted to nail it so badly for them. I thought about every setting I wanted, checked my camera and took a test shot. It looked pretty good, so I got closer and started to shoot. When I was done, they asked me to sit with them. So I started to sit down in front of them and they said, "No. Here with us." and they parted, making a hole for me on the wall. They wanted to know about America and California, they wanted me to know all about their home for the disabled, they asked if I could travel with them and after about an hour of visiting, they had to go. We swapped email addresses so I could send the picture to them and parted ways.

If it wasn't for the touristy aspect of Udaipur and Pushkar, I wouldn't have been there that morning and would have missed them, depriving myself of one of the highlights of my trip. I guess this is where I remind myself that it's about the journey and getting lost or disappointed can bring good and wonderful things. I so enjoyed my time with them and am really proud of the picture. Their joy for life, pride in who they are and love for others, crushes and shames me for any insecurities or prejudices I might have. What could I possibly complain about to them? Nothing. Not even crunchy hippies.

Rajasthan, The Land of Kings

For me, the Amber Fort is where it all started. I saw a picture of it and thought it was fake, a rendering from stories or historic images. I didn't know it really existed. The massive wall, the way it filled the terrain of Amer, calmly sitting in front of the lake... I'd never seen a structure so vast. I started looking online and there were more forts, palaces and temples; more amazing things built before power tools, trucks and cranes and I wanted to see the place where these things live. That's pretty much what got this whole trip going, a picture of the Amber Fort.

That morning, I experienced that rare moment in India where, at the water's edge, I had it all to myself. In my mind, I had imagined the moment when I first saw the Amber Fort; it's silent it's just the three of us: me, the lake and the Amber Fort. As is often the case, reality bested imagination and even at sunrise, there was the omnipresent old Hindi music, blaring from crappy loudspeakers across the lake and in that moment, the whole experience was perfect and I wouldn't have changed a thing.

Family Foto...

Agra is home to the Taj Mahal and Fatehpur Shikri, an abandoned Mughal capital that was vacated shortly after it was built. They are the highlights of Agra and if it weren't for these little boys, I'd probably have a picture of the Taj and be writing about how truly beautiful it is. But these guys are what I'll remember when I think of Agra.

The little guy flexing was first, he hit me up for money right away. The second I stepped up onto the wall, he was there. Change is hard to come by in India, there's a lot going on with their currency and I didn't have any. No matter what sign or pantomime I did to try and convey that I had no change, he kept putting his hand to his mouth saying "Food"

I think he was getting ready to move on when pointed at my camera, then at himself and said, "Foto?" I said "Haan" or yes. He posed for a few pictures, flexing and mean-mugging. I showed him the pictures on the back of the camera and he beamed. He pointed at one of the other boys nearby and made a motion like a hug. I nodded and he made the gesture again, as if he was checking. I laughed and nodded. The looks on his face went from questioning to unsure to excitement before he did that thing little boys do, where their entire body locks up and goes rigid as his head tilted back and he screamed to no-one in particular, "Family foto! Family foto! Family foto!" Suddenly, one of them literally crawled out of a drain pipe, the others were running as fast as they could, they bounded up onto the wall and it was game on. They were posing and jostling for position, each doing his own thing, each expressing himself. They stopped for a moment and clawed at my hand to see the back of the camera. When I turned on the screen, the arms shot up in victory and they burst out in a cheer. They wanted to see every picture, they were so excited. They were too young to be excited by a nice picture, I think it was more validation or proof. Proof they exist. They are. Even though the tall guy in the back has his eyes closed, I like this picture. He was the shy one and I think it's fitting he's sort of in his own space. 

Family foto... I'm hoping and praying there's a parent at home or that there's even a home, but the reality is, it's probably the five of them against the world and even if they aren't blood relatives, they're all the family they have.

And this photo proves they were here.

Welcome to Delhi

I arrived at my hotel, checked in and dumped my stuff; I was heading out into the chaos, I'm  going to be a carefree traveler and explore India! But not before being stopped by The Colonel, inquiring as to where I was going.

“I’m just going to wander.”

“First time in India?”

“Yes.”

“I will go with you.”

And with that, I had a personal escort. He was a retired soldier, lead a Punjabi regiment and was now in charge of hotel security. There’s something cool about being escorted by a guy in a sharp gray suit and saffron turban. He even walked cool.  He owned the place. Long and lean with hands clasped behind his back, he moved through the crowds unaware that there were other people on the sidewalk, although they were aware of us. I'm guessing they probably don't see a lot of bulky, middle aged white guys; big wide rectangles bashing about, messing up the flow...  After a couple of blocks, we stood at Connaught Circle; motor scooters, tuk-tuks, cars, bikes, tractors, trucks, dogs, people, colors, noise and motion in all directions. It was amazing, dangerous and chaotic. He pointed out landmarks, gave me directions back to the hotel and cautioned, “India can be a bit… overwhelming, but I trust you will have the experience of a lifetime” and with a crisp, firm handshake, he was gone. I looked around and the first thing I saw, was a bespoke suit fitting on the sidewalk with five or six strangers standing around shouting their opinions about the drape of the fabric and where the hem of the suit should hit… Then a young man approached me and asked, “What is your good name and where are you from?” I told him and he said, “What about Trump?” And down the rabbit hole we went. There was something so real and beautiful about all of it. Life. Unfiltered.

Welcome to Delhi.

SFO LHR DEL

My flight itinerary was San Francisco to London Heathrow and onto New Delhi. SFO-LHR-DEL.

SFO is dominated by the tech ads, companies striving to make the world a better place... But sometimes, it seems like the efficiency comes from bypassing the human interaction. Just jump past the fuss of speaking to someone. It seems so insular. Whereas LHR is so polite, the last outpost of civility and manners. Where a polite 20-something old restaurant worker can make you feel dignified by saying, "I'm so sorry, but we don't take American Express." And after 24 hours, finally touching down at DEL. Delhi, the 3rd largest urban area on earth. Population: 22 million, not counting the cows. I can’t think of anything to say about it that hasn’t been said before. Amazing, chaotic, loud, indiscreet, warm, honest, affectionate, unfiltered, shy and in your face all at the same time… My 24 hours here has been mind boggling. I sat for an hour on a bench outside of arrivals just watching and taking it in. Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist, Christian, Sikh, Brahmain, young, old, honking horns, smells... It just felt like life.

When I think about SFO LHR DEL, I feel like it could be a metaphor for the world today. It's sort of a timeline and we're either advancing or declining. Is removing the human interaction really an advancement? Sitting there and watching the chaos, I think they might be onto something. It's a mess, but it works because it's based on acceptance, interaction and respect; I don't think there's an app for that.