Travels and travails

This is the picture on the wall of my room at the India International Centre in Delhi -- auspicious, no? That crow looks a little pudgy to me. Perhaps it's been fed by all of the walkers, picnickers, and "laughers" (people who laugh for therapy; it's kind of cultish, really) in the Lodhi Gardens.

And indeed, the journey across the earth has been eventful. It started with my spending the night in a hotel in Newark, New Jersey, because my flight was at 8AM and my parents would have had to drive me from the city at 4AM to get there. Well, I got up at 4:30AM and took the hotel shuttle--along with a huge, raucous Lebanese family--to the airport. I stood in line to check in, handed in my passport, and --

"Ma'am, have you changed your name?"

"No."

"Have you bought your ticket yet?"

"Yes. Two months ago."

"We don't have you listed."

WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

I frantically handed the nice lady a copy of my itinerary from Orbitz.com, whereupon she raised her eyebrows, smirked, and pointed to some small print on the bottom.

"Ma'am, your flight leaves from JFK."

Note: thank goodness it was so early in the morning, because if I had had my wits about me and realized the gravity of the situation -- namely that I am completely incapable of traveling alone and should be locked up in a prison for unbelievably absent-minded individuals -- I would have broken down and cried right there. However, having had zero cups of coffee that morning, I calmly informed her that I was "freaking out," and could she help me?

Of course, the mess-up deserves some explanation. For those of you who were not with me during the two hours one early morning in July when I went to Orbitz.com and booked a ticket to India, just know that there are lots of flights to India that look very, very alarmingly similar. Most leave at 7:30 or 8:00 in the morning, arrive in London later that evening, and connect to flights that leave from Heathrow at 10PM to go to New Delhi. In my total indecision about which flight to pick -- and general confusion about this whole trip -- I chose a flight that left from JFK, but somehow thought I had picked a flight from Newark. Given the multiple confirmation e-mails that Orbitz.com sent me over the past two months, there is absolutely no excuse for doing what I did. But at least there is an explanation.

And, realizing how I made this mistake in the first place, I was relieved. Everything was going to be okay. There was, clearly, a 7:30AM flight leaving from Newark: it was the one I intended to book in the first place. I could get on it, or at least get on standby. It was even the same airline. So I paid a minimal fee, got an aisle seat, and flew to London on a virtually empty plane. Shaken by my apparently wild incompetence, I watched two movies that took my mind off of it: "The Kite Runner" and "Happy-Go-Lucky." I recommend both, should you be on a transatlantic flight with nothing to think about but your own utter incapability to do anything properly. Really, though, after everything, the flight was pretty idyllic.

Things continued to go well at Heathrow, where my beloved Terminal 3 was unnaturally empty. I went through connecting flight security with absolutely no waiting in line. When I got in the queue at Starbucks to enjoy my last cup of non-Nescafe coffee, the man in line before me had a voucher from his airline (he was delayed five hours) and bought me a cup of coffee. People are fantastic.

Unfortunately, that was when my troubles started again, and I'll keep this one short. I spilled coffee on my white shirt, got up to run to the nearest duty free and get a souvenir tee shirt to wear on the plane, realized once I had circled the duty free unsuccessfully that I had left my yoga mat at Starbucks, ran back to Starbucks where they were calling security because of an abandoned package, convinced the men at Starbucks that I wasn't a terrorist, got my yoga mat, went back to the "Glorious Britain" souvenir shop, and found a very ugly, ill-fitting long-sleeved tee shirt that says "City of London, England." I went to change in the ladies' room and shortly found myself sitting in the waiting area wearing a horrendously ugly tee shirt and feeling, yet again, rather silly.

Yet again, my flight was blissful. The plane was empty (people, fly Virgin Atlantic!!) and the people on it were far more interesting. Lots of large Indian men who, when asked whether they wanted chicken or vegetarian, answered "both, and some juice and coffee and tea, too." I had a whole row to myself, and slept like a baby. We arrived in Delhi at the sane hour of 11AM. The airport had been renovated since my last visit, there was no line to go through customs, and the place was deserted -- very, very few international flights land during the day. I took a taxi to "Lodhi Road" (technically Max Mueller Marg, after the nineteenth century "Orientalist" German scholar), and my driver only tried once -- and rather halfheartedly, at that -- to take me to a hotel run by his "cousin".

Successes of the first two days: finding the picture of the crow in my room, picking up my train tickets to go to Jaipur (today!), taking several autorickshaws without accident, miraculously escaping the monsoon downpours, finding out I actually have an apartment to live in when I get to Pune, sorting through beautiful clothes at FabIndia (actually located next to the market which was bombed only a few days ago), and having idly-sambar-chutney for breakfast.

Amazing. Jai Hind!

Occidental pastries

A. and I completed our Goodbye New York Pilgrimage with some faithful prayer at the shrine of the Hungarian Pastry Shop. (Have you noticed that most of my blog thus far has been devoted to food? I should really get a life. And show some consideration for those who are fasting Ramadan.) Barnard girls, Columbia students, residents of Morningside Heights, and certain well-travelled individuals may well be informed about the glorious Hungarian Pastry Shop. For all the rest of you, just know that one doesn't really go there for the pastries. Aside from the excellent pumpkin pie (thanks for the tip, K.!), the goods have been sitting around for a while -- and even if they weren't, I'm afraid they still wouldn't be a rave party on the tongue.

Eddie Said might have something to say (and perhaps did say something) about the arrangement of the pastries under the glass counter of the Hungarian Pastry Shop. On the right side of the counter are the cheesecakes, pumpkin pies, chocolate ganaches, and tiramisus. On the left side of the counter -- separated by a metal barrier -- are the baklava, poppyseed rolls, hamentaschen, and other "exotic" (hee hee) Eastern European/Middle Eastern sweets. Last year, as A. and I were making our pilgrimage to the Hungarian Pastry Shop before I departed for a summer program in Jordan, we ordered a tiramisu. At that moment, I had the unfortunate lack of discretion to say something along the lines of "You always choose the western ones." To this day, I have had no peace from A. for making such a hoity-toity (and probably intellectually misguided) comment. Oh dear.

All this to say: here are some pictures of the orientalist pastry cases. These, as you can see, picture "the western ones."













But as I said, you don't really go there for the pastries. You go there because it's right across from the Cathedral of St. John the Divine (the world's largest Gothic cathedral, I think). You go there to sit outside at the sidewalk tables and drink Moroccan tea while either freezing to death or suffocating of the heat, depending on the season. You go there to relish the warmth (if winter) or cool (if summer) of the indoors, because the place insulates like no other. You go there to sit at one of the tables that are crowded so close together that there's no way it isn't a fire hazard. You go there to watch tons -- I mean, *tons* -- of intellectual types read books in lots of different languages and chug down black coffee. You go there to eavesdrop of the conversations of said intellectual types. You go there to see what said intellectual types are wearing.

I go there for the bathroom. To be precise, I go there for the bathroom walls (and ceiling and floor), upon which are scrawled feminist/communist/capitalist manifestos, declarations of freedom/gender/being, extended debates about Israel and Palestine, and rather juicy gossip. To anyone who's ever had the joy of reading what's written in the middle stall of the girls' bathroom in Adams House: darling, the Hungarian Pastry Shop is your Paradise.

Here are some treasures.

NYC, I will miss you.

Today, A. and I embarked on the same pilgrimage we undertake every time one of us is leaving New York City for an extended period of time. We eat at the overpriced, not-so-good Popover Cafe and convince the (alternately surly/flamboyant) waiter to take a picture of us.

Then we walk and walk. This time we made it as far as H&H bagels (see photo of A. with a pack of lox), where we loitered for a while because of the air conditioning and amazing bagel smell.

We hopped on the subway -- also, thankfully, air conditioned, but not nearly as sweet-smelling -- and got off at 14th Street. We wandered around Greenwich Village, where we found some statues (see picture) and some well-dressed junkies (too embarrassed to take a picture).

We also found a bar with a special name: The Stoned Crow. I will not speculate on the meaning of this particular name, except that it must have been incredibly auspicious for us to have found it on this particular venture downtown.

We continued on to a massive street fair in Little Italy--I have never seen so much meat and pastry in one place--and then to the inevitable Babycakes for the inevitable frosting shot. For those of you who don't know what a Babycakes frosting shot is:

1. It is a crying shame that you are so unenlightened.
2. Babycakes is a vegan, gluten-free, spelt-tastic bakery on the Lower East Side of Manhattan where the pastries actually taste like real food. It is incredible. You can ask anyone who has been there. The website is www.babycakesnyc.com.
3. Babycakes, while famous for its beautiful cupcakes / muffins / brownies / cookies, is especially famous for its secret-recipe frosting. The only thing we know about the frosting is that it's sweetened with agave nectar (??) and that it's *amazing*. And because it's vegan, well, it must be good for you.
4. Erin McKenna, the genius behind the Babycakes empire, knew her fan base. So she decided to make it possible for customers to purchase tablespoon-sized portions of the unbelievable Babycakes frosting. They squirt it right out of the funnel and into tiny paper cups. Today, the frosting was purple.
5. These frosting shots, by the way, cost $1.50 each. This would be utter highway robbery for regular frosting, but trust me, at Babycakes it's totally worth it.
6. Also, Erin McKenna was in Babycakes while we were there today. I was so high on frosting that I didn't see her, but A. was smart enough to snap a picture of "my frosting shot" that caught the estimable Ms. McKenna in the background. Unfortunately, it's really blurry. My one brush with celebrity: blurry. Thanks.

And so it is with the taste of agave nectar on my tongue that I must get down to sorting out what I need to take with me for the next seven months in India, and -- more importantly -- what I don't. Wish me luck!

And 14 hours later...

Two days at the Indian consulate, and this is what I have to show for it. Isn't it beautiful?

Here is another morsel from www.sanskritquoteoftheday.com--yes, I should be purchasing industrial-strength insect repellant and starting to pack instead of perusing Sanskrit quotes of the day from the past three years--but this one is actually relevant to this post, if sappy.

वसुधैव कुटुम्बकम्।

"[My] household is indeed the world."
-- Maha Upanishad 6.71

"U goin out 2nite?"

This weekend I exchanged many parting words, celebrating my last hurrahs by going to see "Hair" in Central Park (a friend and I woke up at 5 in the morning to wait for tickets), travelling to Cambridge to bid farewell to my wonderful friends and teachers, and "going out" at Wesleyan with my best friend A.

Each event of the weekend struck a chord that resonated with a particular part of my life. "Hair," for example, was the first real musical in which I was ever cast -- at the tender age of twelve. (I don't see why parents don't give their teenagers a copy of the libretto to "Hair" instead of "Our Bodies, Ourselves.") Seeing it in the Park, remembering every single lyric (and there are many of them), I felt some of the same blithe freedom that "Hair" brought to me eight years ago. What's more, I saw the play with a friend whom I've actually known since I was seven: we danced together for a long time in the City and, years later, found each other at Harvard. The whole 24-hour event took me back to the years when I was on the verge of teenager-dom, and in many ways, I feel the same anticipation -- both excitement and fear -- about the coming year that I felt about adulthood when I was at that age.



And Cambridge, of course, had its own Cambridge feel. There's not much to say on this score. For me, at least now, it's a total clash of extremes: the people there inspire me to improve *and* make me happy with where I am; just looking at red brick, on the other hand, makes me feel as if I'm trapped in Lamont Library at four in the morning with a giant cup of coffee and half a response paper to write. Aside pictures the view from (what would have been!) my room this year.

By far the most wonderful part of the weekend was visiting A. at Wesleyan. While it was quite the adventure to get there and back (Middletown-New Haven taxi drivers are fascinating!), the trip was well worth the added effort. On Friday night we "went out"--as they say--to various parties attended by girls in strappy black dresses and bearded men in flannel. Where the gigantic lawn gatherings and balcony soirees are hiding at Harvard is a mystery to me. It was an excellent time, truly topped only by the 2AM falafel sandwich that A. and I shared from the falafel cart perched at the edge of the main quad. "Do you want hot sauce?" asked the nice veiled lady making our sandwich. "Bring it on!" we enthused: such a bad choice. But flaming mouths aside, really, it was a fantastic falafel.

The party continued the following morning, when A. and I dined on massive breakfasts at O'Rourke's diner in "bustling downtown Middletown". This was followed by a personal (though rainy) tour of the gorgeous Wes campus, where it is indeed possible to buy 12-year aged balsamic vinegar and homemade pizza dough at the student grocery store.





As A. so aptly noted: "They know their audience." Excuse me while I transfer.

Happy Ramadan!

That's just it: wishing all our Muslim friends a blessed month of Ramadan. (Actually it started yesterday, but still.)

Cool fact: this evening, sitting with a friend by the Hudson River, I saw the crescent moon rise over scenic New Jersey.

Crow pose

Today in yoga class I was able to hold crow pose -- the pose that I want to reach more than anything else in the world, even more than, say, headstand or a full caturanga -- for a whole two seconds. It was fantastic. Crows have figured into my life a great deal recently. I once read that the Sanskrit student should strive to become like the crow in her alertness, attention to detail, and readiness to pounce. I saw many, *many* crows while I was in Michigan, just out riding my bike. They scared me. (Think the universe was telling me to study those noun declensions? Yup.) There is, of course, the fat crow. And now there is crow pose, which doesn't make me act (or look) like a crow, but which I have been working on for a long time. As much as I wish I were Nell Gwynn --the first actress on the English stage--in a past life, I'm starting to think I might have been a crow. Not the coolest of animals, but at least it can fly.

Many, many other small special things happened to me this weekend. People that I had been thinking about completely randomly (like my eighth grade math teacher) showed up on the street the same day; I saw a magic trick; I found myself in Times Square twice; old friends from Michigan slept over; I walked to Brooklyn and back; I saw a friend whom I haven't seen in a long time; I learned that another friend is engaged to be married. I even saw the hilarious 'Hamlet 2.'

It doesn't sound like much, but for me, this weekend--jammed with all kinds of small and wonderful and bizarre things--has lasted forever.