You Can Never Go Home

As Max has recounted, we moved to the Palais Jamai, but not without incident. When I asked to be checked out at the Riad Arabesque, they gave me the bill for our two meals (the room was prepaid), which I paid. Later, in the Palais, I saw they had added our two meals together and come up with a sum lower than either of the 2 parts. Almost immediately the phone rings - it's Abdul in the lobby, asking me to see him as there was a mistake in the bill. He insists the only way to resolve the problem is to return to the Riad. I'm pissed off and lecture the poor guy all the way back to the riad. Once we get there, it is obvious I didn't really have to return at all, as they had my credit card info on file. I lecture again. When I had originally asked to be checked out, they just sat there. I assumed they had asked a clerk or the manager to check us out, and I paced for at least 20 minutes while they just sat there and watched. Finally, I asked again how long it would be before we were checked out and they sprang into action - they didn't understand me the first time.

We reserve a room at the Jamai and the desk Mgr. tries to get us in touch with Air Royal Maroc to see if we could get an earlier flight home. No luck, he is told, we must go to the airport to get the tickets changed. We take a taxi to the airport, where the TICKET AGENT tells us he isn't authorized to change our ticket, we must go to the Air Royal Maroc office in Fez, about 2 miles from our hotel. Our taxi driver is very sympathetic and takes us to the office, which is closed because (wait for it) it's Sunday. Now here's my problem: Morocco is a Muslim country - their Holy Day is Friday, but remain open. But they're closed on Sunday. Which the ticket agent could have told us.

We give up and return to the Palais Jamai, a wonderful hotel.

The next day, we repack everything and head out for our last day on this fantastic trip. We (I) decide we should try doing short trips out from the hotel into the Medina, rather than getting another guide. Max gives in to my plan after officially going on record that it's a dumb idea. As it turns out, it's a dumb idea. During our initial forays, a persistent guy tries to get hired as a guide and becomes annoying. When we finally do hire a guide, it's one of the young men who originally helped us carry our bags to the Riad Arabesque when we first arrived - Muhammed.

For the next few hours, he takes us around the Medina, even taking us into a riad being renovated for a rich investor. The weather is perfect and we return to the PJ for a great late lunch and to get ready for our trip home. HOME!

The next morning we are awake at 4AM for a 5AM trip to the airport. Not too much of interest at the Fez Airport, but then we get to Casablanca and have 4 hours to kill. While wandering around the airport we pass an intransit lounge wherein we see scores of Moroccans and other regionals sleeping and basically living in an area of about 100 feet sqare. It stinks.

We end up going through security about 3 times and at one point are transferred to another terminal where we are given free coffee and cookies, except the cookies have an ant roaming over them. When it's finally time to board, it's about an hour before takeoff, but we soon see why the early start - they go through evreryone's carry-on luggage and do a body scan before letting you get on yet another bus to get to the plane. But we suffer through all of this, driven by the thoughts of getting home after 33 days on the road.

Chinese Fire Drill a la Fez

Ihave hardly slept. The septic smell emanating from the bathroom is making me nauseous and I cannot get this out of my head. I spend the whole night, awake, making my case for going to look for a room at the Palais Jamais in the morning. This bath has a brass sink basin that splatters water all over you and we have not had the patience to wait for truely HOT water. It is now five weeks on the road and I am not in the mood for camping. We have only paid for two nights here anyway and the food is just not that great for the price. Princess mode is in order, I think.

At breakfast, we discuss this. Tucker is making the case for trying to get plane tickets for home today. We agree that it would be best to assure ourselves of a room at the Palais Jamais first....just in case we can't leave Morocco today. The Palais is just a short walk to the top of the alley that we took when we arrived two days earlier.

The desk manager is wonderful to us. Assuring us that they have room for us this evening, he also goes the extra mile and calls the airport for us to see if the tickets can be changed. He returns with the answer that we would have to go to the airport to make any such changes. He calls a taxi for us. The taxi arrives at the front door!..what a great idea. $30 later and a nice ride with a very friendly and kind cabby, we are done. It is impossible to make such changes at the airport. It must be done at a travel agency that books for that airline. We drive around until we find the office, but it is Sunday and this office just isn't open. Back to the Palais Jamais to book a room. For only $40 more, we will have a modern room, one of the biggest and best breakfast buffets I have ever enjoyed, a pool, a choice of restaurants, people to watch and a long hot shower.

Back down the alley to give the Riad Arabesque the good news that we will be leaving. We have always dealt with Abdul, who speaks the best English and also wears alot of different "hats". Tucker stays in the lobby to settle up with Abdul....a truely priceless bit of repartee, I understand. Tucker will have to tell you all about that. I go up and repack again and am ready to leave in 20 minutes flat. Abdul helps us get the luggage back up the hill to the Palais Jamais.

The majority of the people staying at this hotel are French. It obviously caters to the French traveler and businessman. Another language to be heard here and the promise of French cooking. The elevator to the fourth floor is just large enough to hold three people and is lined with old varnished wood, mirrors, brass and granite. Lovely. Dry. Clean and rich. The room is delightfully bright and fresh. Lacks the character of the Arabesque, but I crave warm and fresh and convenient.

But wait. Just as we are about to have a go at the shower, the phone rings and Tucker is asked to come back down to the lobby to clear up some error in the paperwork. Apparently Abdul has returned to say that their was a mistake in the bill. Tucker is told that he would have to RETURN to the Riad Arabesque in order to put things straight. This is also a pretty good story that I will leave to Tucker.

Finally showered and dressed in my salwaar kameez, we head down to the patio to enjoy the luncheon buffet in the sunshine. There is a great view of the Medina from here. For dessert, we take a petit taxi to the local supermarket. This is one of our favorite things to do in a new country. It says alot about a culture when you can see what is offered in their "modern" grocery stores. We stock up on vodka, cookies, cheese, crackers and chips. We're staying in for the evening to watch Moroccan T.V. When we go to find a taxi to return, we are told that there is a staging area at the end of the mall and that we must take the first taxi in line.

I'm contented and asleep by 8 p.m. It is the first night that I have really slept well in four days. At 5:30 a.m. we are awakened by the call to prayer.... by the microphone ghost....who sings to Allah via a slowly revolving loudspeaker installed atop the minaret. Progress everywhere these days. I am beginning to fantasize about the concept of "sleeping in" and how delicious it must be to awaken when your body tells you it is ready to arise.

Clop, shop and drop

Happy Anniversary to Us. We wake up to a rainy day in Fez. We must meet our guide at 10 am, so we arrange to have breakfast downstairs in one of the dining areas at 8:30. To our surprise, there are four other people staying in this Riad. We haven't seen or heard any of them at all since we arrived. We arrange to have dinner here tonight because it makes our life easier and we are tired now. The jet lag and the plethora of banquet-like meals in India has really ruined our appetite. We arrange to have soup. That's it. Nineteen years of memories and we just need soup!

The guide arrives and is dressed in a traditional caftan with a hood. This is not for appearances because the majority of the locals still wear the caftan as their choice of habit. It is only the young adults that are sporting jeans, sweaters and cell phones. Many of the adult women wear a head covering, but many of the young women are seen without them. A transitional time in Morocco's customs or more diversity in religious choices? Never got the answer.

Off we go, umbrella at the ready and excited to see the medieval architecture in daylight. And I use that term loosely, because the streets are very narrow and the sky is very grey. This is the Medina and it truely is a step into the past because some areas were constructed in the 11th century. The guide takes a brisk pace and merely points in the direction of interesting spots that I would have delighted in studying for several minutes. All will be clear very shortly. As in India, the man has a mission. To get us to visit as many places with shopping opportunities as is possible in five hours. He will get a "cut" of the proceeds and probably has his "favorite" places to haunt where his acquaintances allow him to sit and have mint tea while the "tour" of the facility is given by a local artisan. Luckily, many of the establishments we will visit today are totally interesting and unlike anything we could see anywhere else in the world. Later on, we tire of the pressure to buy goods in every corner of the Medina. When the guide realizes that we just want to look around, the tour comes to a quick end. It was still a memorable way to spend our anniversary.

The first visit we made was to a "donkey hotel". It is a mud floor enclosed area with "rooms" for out-of-town merchants and their donkeys to use for a night or two before making the trek back to their villages. Donkeys are the "delivery trucks" of the Medina. They carry everything in and out of the old walled city because the streets are too narrow for any motorized vehicle. In fact, a human being must become accustomed to dodging into doorways to avoid being trampled by the beasts and their burden. I found it fun because it was one of the few things we could do to experience the life style of the locals living within the walls.

Next visit was the tanneries. You can smell the tannery well before you arrive. Donkeys pass loaded down with hides of goat, sheep and camel. We climb a flight of stairs and are on a balcony looking down into a kind of "city within a city". Rows and rows of concrete vats are filled with colored liquid and hides. The dyes are made with natural substances and there are men standing in the vats, pant legs rolled up to mid thigh, stirring and rearranging the pliable leathers. Some of the vats contain a white lye that takes the remaining hair and flesh from the new pelts. Many storage areas around the perimeter are piled high with new arrivals for the vats. The odor is almost overwhelming. An acrid mix of rotting flesh and stringent potions. I buy shoes and a purse.

We visit a pottery and mosaic factory. The potters are still using the type of wheel that is pushed with the foot and all of the glazes are painted on by hand in complicated arabesque motifs. The tessari for the mosaic tables and fountains are cut by hand in painstaking fashion with archaic tools. The kilns are fueled by dried olive pits. The system may be old, but it still works. Each piece is an individual. Many people are given gainful employment. We buy a few small bowls because they will pack well.

We are taken to the oldest mosque in town and have a look at the university area that is being totally refurbished by UNESCO. The doorways are fascinating and beautiful. The Moorish archways give the brick and mortar walls character. The Islamic stories "written" on the walls of a courtyard are actually individually cut pieces of inlaid mosaic. Remarkable accomplishments with basic tools. Water channels hold water that has trickled down from the surrounding hills and has been fed, underground, to the open courtyard.

And then we pass throught the Souk. In Fez, this large area of merchant stalls runs almost all the way through the center of the Medina. The smell of garlic and spices and raw meats and vegetables and herbs mixes with the truely exotic nature of the visuals to give you the most exhilarating experience. It is as if one had been able to travel back through time and literally touch history. Camel meat is available. All types of "cousins" to the vegetables we are familiar (these are just NOT quite the same kind of carrot or turnip or cabbage or bean we've eaten) Carpenters cut wood on old machinery in a tiny stall and then carry the pieces on their backs to the work site. Children run in between the legs of adults on their way back to school. More eye candy than a person can digest when the guide is racing ahead of you at a good clip.

The Medina is such a labyrinth of tiny alleyways that one could not negotiate around without a guide. It would be possible to be lost, like a mouse in a maze, for days on end. The guide tells us that he is still learning his way around. And then he tries for one more cottage industry/shopping experience and we balk.

When we arrive backat the Riad, the windows to the room have been half closed and the room has a damp and musty feel. I become aware of a strong smell of sewer gas in the bathroom that I will not be able to get out of my nostrils. We watch a little TV, just to get a flavor of the media in this country, and try to stay awake until 7:30 for soup. We are alone in the hotel again this evening. Or perhaps we are just not able to dine properly...late. I watch as Muhammed ties one end of his cumberbund to the door handle and then "twirls" around and around until it is wrapped about his middle. (He is changing his costume from doorman to waiter!)

It continues to rain and the bathroom smell has infected the entire room. I will not sleep well and this will give rise to our next great Moroccan adventure.

Time Travel

It's 2/17/07 and that means we've been married for 19 years. The weatherman is not impressed and gives us an off-and-on rainy day. Breakfast was quite good, although the poached eggs in the tahine could have used better presentation. There were two kinds of bread, one being a very dense corn bread, yoghurt, a sort of doughnut, fruit and great orange juice.

Our guide for the day looks like me. He wears a pointy-hooded robe-like garment called a jellaba, common among older men in Morocco.

The Medina is a labyrinth of narrow alleys with walls that mean you have no reference to use to get your bearings. I have read estimates in the thousands for the number of passageways in the Medina, so even though it is only a bit over a square mile, it is a maze that could keep you going in circles forever. Therefore the guide. Donkeys are the only form of transport in the Medina, and therefore you have to watch your step, although our guide assures us that to step in donkey shit is good luck. We take a rain check on good fortune at every step.

The souks, or markets of the Medina are difficult to describe. You walk through a very narrow alley festooned with goods and foods on every wall, often overhead as well. There are small stalls-in-the-walls, varying from a few feet square to maybe 8x10 feet in size, selling everything you could imagine as well as several things you couldn't imagine, such as camel meat, with a severed camel head propped up to advertise the goods for sale. Everywhere you turn your head is a picture you can't get in Greenfield Center NY. There is nothing to prevent you from believing you are in a medieval Arab market.

We take a break from the hustle and bustle of the Medina and are taxied out of the Medina up a hill overlooking the city, then go to a ceramic "factory" to see how the various clay products are hand crafted into colorful tahines, bowls, you-name-it products.

Back in the Medina, we stop for lunch in an over-the-top decorated restaurant where we continue our lack of enthusiasm for food and have fruit, tea and biscuits because we feel somehow obligated, knowing our guide is probably getting a percentage of our bill total.

Next, we climb stairs that go up from an alley, to a second story leather store, walk straight through it and emerge on a balcony overlooking the tanneries of Fez. We gaze down on a panaorama of large clay pools filled with various colored dyes, with men, knee deep in the dyes, dipping the tanned hides for leather products production. It's so archaic, but amazing (see pix above.)

At dinner that night we pull out all the stops and have vegetable soup and a fruit cup. That's it. We're just not hungry. Then to bed, but not to a good sleep. Max is bothered by a putrid odor coming from our ancient bathroom.

Strangers in a Strange land

If you travel for extended periods of time, and are not used to being away from home for such a long time, you are subject to a form of homesickness that is inversely related to the familiarity of the culture you are traveling in. In '86 in India, I had a couple of days where I would have gladly hopped the next plane to South Carolina, were it that easy. In '89, after 3+ weeks of eating various forms of Southeast Asian food, Max and I nostalgically pigged out on hamburgers and fries in Bangkok. On this trip, although we didn't admit it to each other until we had arrived home, both of us wished we could just fly home from London and forget about Morocco. We were weary of the constant travel and all it entailed.

Fortunately, we kept on truckin', because Morocco was wonderful.

After 5 hours of sleep at our cheesy Heathrow Hotel, we hop a 5:30 bus to the airport and are delivered, like pre-packaged onboard breakfasts, to the lower bowels of the airport, an alleyway full of vendors' vans. We are directed through an industrial door to a sort of freight elevator that promises to take us to the departures level of Terminal 2. During the 2 floor trip in the elevator we have a pleasant chat with a Jamaican Brit and his two sons, who are on their way to Helsinki to start a new life.

Check-in is easier than we've encountered anywhere on the trip. But despite the fact that we booked this flight over 4 months prior to takeoff, we're in the back of the bus, me next to an over-upholstered Brit from the Midlands, sitting on her well-used personal cushion, and reading a romance novel (31 pages in 3 hours - where is Evelyn Woods when you really need her?) (an oblique reference, I'll admit). Breakfast is two lumps of fried potatoes accompanied by a garnish of jellified mushrooms and tomatos. Hands down, the worst airline meal I've ever not eaten. British Airways lost a lot of points on this flight.

Fez International Airport is new and fresh under a brilliantly blue cloudless sky. We take the green "Nothing to Declare" express line through customs, except the guy in front of us had something to declare, but didn't, and they caught him. We watched as they opened his luggage to discover scores of watches and other glittery doodads. Fortunately for him, they were so cheesy-cheap they allowed him to pass.

We were supposed to have been met by a rep from the Riad Arabesque, the small inn we were booked at in Fez, but there was no one. We eventually found some one who spoke English in the Customer Service counter (I'm not complaining - we were strangers in a strange land) and had him call the Arabesque to inquire about our ride. The Arabesque denied any responsibility for our transport, so our Customer Service Guy goes outside with us to try to persuade one of the waiting Taxi Guys to take us to Fez. It becomes obvious after a while that no one wants to take us to the Arabesque because no one knows where it is. If this were India, hundreds of Taxi Guys would swarm all over us and promise to take us to our hotel whether they had any clue where it was, or not.

Anyway, the guy who got the short straw loads us up and heads towards Fez. The ride is wonderful, with less people, less trash and less odor than India. We stop twice for directions, the Taxi Guy visibly leaking testosterone. Eventually, we arrive at the gate to the vehicle-free 900 year old walled Medina of Fez, and a couple of young guys appear from nowhere to help us schlep our bags to the Arabesque. The web site said it was 30 yards from the gate, but it's more like 300 yards. Maybe they meant metric yards.

We walk through 10 foot wide cobblestoned alleys and stop at a dark dead end side alley with a small sign announcing the Riad Arabesque. Riads are centuries-old mansions built within the walls of the Medina. They all have unpretentious exteriors with only a door in a wall as an entrance. Inside, it's a different story. Our Riad has a large wooden door and a bell. We're ushered in by a young man in a flowing white robe, past pictures of celebrities such as Jeremy Irons who have stayed here in the past.

The place is over the top in historic Moorish decor. We are seated in a central atrium and sip mint tea while being checked in. The atrium has 4 small anterooms which will be used for meals. I ask about the absence of the promised ride from the airport and am assured it was never promised. After I get home, I e-mail the promised ride e-mail back to the Riad Arabesque, but never get a response. I wreak revenge by trashing them in a review on Trip Advisor.

Our suite is wierdly different fom anything we've ever stayed in. It has stained glass windows looking onto the atrium, it has a dressing area, it has 16 foot ceilings, it has a stone tub big enough for three, it has an odorifous bathroom.

Dinner carries the wierd factor a step further. They pour water over your hands before you begin dining. We start with 9 salads, one of which is carrots flavored with cinnamon. Then we have a minced lamb dish served in layered pastry with seaoning and, of course, a powdered sugar topping. The last dish was some sort of meatball thing in a tomato sauce.

Tomorrow is our 19th anniversary.

The Magnificent Souvenir

The man standing in the middle of the room is talking to our group about the fine paintings that the artists of Udaipur have produced over the centuries. I'm not hearing too much of what he is saying because I am being distracted by the Elephant Boy over in the corner. I politely look interested in the young man demonstrating the art of grinding and mixing all of the natural pigments used in these paintings, but I am more interested in how the paint came to be burnished across the belly of the Boy. He stands about 7 feet tall, has six arms and rides atop a mouse. I just love everything about him.

When the demonstration is over I turn to Tucker and tell him that I am not interested in the paintings. But look over there. In the corner. He turns to me in amazement and admits that he has had his eye on the same Elephant statue. Ganesha. Carved from an odd black wood and then burnished with just a little color, he holds the cobra and is missing part of one tusk. Ganesha is part of the Big Huge Legend of India. When Shiva lost her son because he was beheaded , she could no longer go on. Moved by her sorrow, Siva resurrects the body by borrowing the head of a small elephant. And so it is that Ganesha is born into India's mythology. He embodies the spirit of new beginnings. Whenever there is a wedding to take place in a household in India, there is a Ganesha painted near the front entrance of the home. For luck.

I once read a book entitled "Shopping for Buddhas" and it described a man's journeys throughout Southeast Asia in search of the perfect Buddha. I had been looking for a small Ganesha in brass or ivory. But this was so much better. Big can be better and this one was huge. We make an attempt to look around the four floors of this shop for something else a little smaller. We find a very over-the-top, very cool, carved wooden frame that employs peacocks as a theme. The peacock is the symbol for Rajasthan. And this frame is also burnished with metallic gold and copper and silver paint. Sounds horrible but is quite beautiful.

The bus is leaving in 20 minutes and there will never be another chance to look at either piece. We bargain quickly and as hard as we can in 20 minutes. The bargain must include both pieces AND the shipping charges to the U.S. We begin to walk out the door and our offer is accepted. (this always works like a charm....took us two weeks to figure it out!) The papers are signed. We now own a really neat Ganesha that is supposedly 60 years old and was taken from the entryway of a wealthy home. We chose to believe this because we wanted the damn thing anyway. (IF it were older than that it would not be allowed to leave the country...best not ask). The frame will be a conversation piece as well.

What a fabulous day this turned out to be. What we do not yet realize is that Ganesha will require us to participate in an even more difficult birth when we return home.....but that is another story.

Off we go to London, which takes an interminable amount of time and energy repacking and waiting in the Airport Zone. The hotel is very British in its tackiness, but larger than most European hotel rooms. Even the club sandwich was not as appetizing as I had expected it to be. The drinks were fine. Best to relax before we attack a new country. Maybe Ganesha will be a lucky charm for us as well.

India: 973 Tucker: 1

I had been to the Taj back in '86, but was still amazed at its grandeur and perfection. This time, however, I managed something that rarely happens in India - I beat it at its own game. As Max mentioned, it was raining the day we went to the Taj Mahal, so we all had POW-issued umbrellas. I managed to snag mine on the way out of the bus, rendering it useless, so I just folded it up. Since they don't allow vehicles within several hundred yards of the Taj entrance (to avoid pollution) we have to wend our way through some of the most aggressive vendors/beggars we have yet encountered. One chap is in my face, trying to sell me a book of Taj postcards. He won't give up. I try ignoring him, I try no-ing him repeatedly, I try insulting him, to no avail. Suddenly, I get an idea - I thrust my useless umbrella in his face and ask "Trade?" He jumps at the opportunity, and I walk off triumphantly, with a book of Taj Mahal postcards that I'll never use. It's the principle of the thing.

It's our last night on the POW, but we're still not hungry and just have soup. Everybody in the Bar Car is saying their goodbyes to friends they have made and trading e-mail addresses that, for the most part, will never be used. I apologize for my cynicism, but anyone who has been on a cruise or tour of this sort knows I'm right.

The next morning, we pay our tips and are off the train by 8 AM. Back at the Claridges, we get a room that is much larger and more comfortable than the first time we stayed here. We decide, once again, to go to the Khan Mrket, but discover it doesn't open until 11:30. How silly of us to expect a retail market to open before the day is half over. In '86 I read a piece by Nehru who lamented the Indian work ethic. He said most office workers, especially government workers, appear at their office by 10 each morning, read the newspaper and take tea until 11, do a little work until noon, then take at least an hour for lunch,come back and do another hour or two of work, then leave for home.

Anyway, our taxi driver takes us to another market, where Max picks up some prezzies for Mumsie, Krid and the Knitwits. Don't ask. We hang out for the duration of the day, repacking for Morocco.

Next day, Prandesh and Driver pick us up at 8:50 AM. Our flight is at 1:10 PM. The drive takes 40 minutes, so we make it by the skin of our teeth, having only 3 hours and 40 minutes to clear check-in and security.

Indira Ghandi International Airport has you check your luggage way before you check in. They scan it and then strap it with industrial strength plastic strapping, to prevent you getting back into it. Ever. We know we have a 9 hour flight to London, so we upgrade our seating to bulkhead seats, for about $80 each.

The flight is great because: We have all kinds of legroom/stand room in front of us. We have

a great variety of good movies to view at our leisure, free. They serve free booze. The meal is actually edible. The flight sucks because: The Hindi across the aisle from us decides to abandon his seat so his wife can snooze, and sits in the flight attendant's seat in front of us, staring at us and taking away our leg room. They don't clear the meal dishes for about an hour, the Bloody Marys were Bloody Awful and we're 45 minutes late leaving, meaning we were in the airport for over 4 hours before leaving.

In Heathrow, we have a long walk to immigration, then a long wait to get through immigration, then a long wait in the cold to get our Hoppa Bus to our hotel, the Premier (not) Travel Lodge. At Check-in we're line-jumped for the second time since we've arrived in London. The first was at immigration, when a bunch of Indians set up their own line for check-ins. Not that I'm bitter.

We're told our room, #1122 is on the first floor, so we schlep our luggage through 2 security doors requiring our room key (remember, we have major luggage), before realizing we're in LimeyLand (sorry about that Ernie, if you're still reading) and the first floor is actually one floor up from the Ground Floor. So we trudge up to the first (second) floor, using our room key for the elevator, make about 4 wrong turns and finally get to our room. I go down to the lobby and call the office, to hear we've had a 3 foot snowfall, then retire to the room for wine and bed. Whataday.

Love hast no bounds

As I have mentioned before, there is nothing like visiting the East to give you a taste of what monumental grandness and romantic flare can be. The magnificent structures of Udaipur and Agra would have fall into the category of "Wonders of the World."

The City Palace of Udaipur is really eleven palaces all hooked together. Each subsequent Raj had to have more and better and make his mark for posterity. One Raj needed to add enough "apartments" for his 103 concubines (yes, that was not a typographical error). The interior is a maze of rooms, secret stairways, balconies and passageways constructed entirely of marble and sandstone and assorted inlaid precious pieces. The "establishment" stretches out for close to a mile. It is almost the only thing one can see along one side of the lake. The floating palace on the lake that we visited was, in fact, built just for the use of the last Raj on his honeymoon.

Alas and alack, the last Raj could not create, through his one "official" wife, a male heir to the throne. But he had a daughter that he intended to marry off to a "suitable" man in order that she could generate a grandson that would have the right to the throne when he, himself, passed on. The daughter was already in love with another man. The night before the wedding, she threw herself from one of the palace balconies and ended her tormented life. And that ended the entire line of rulers for Udaipur. There has never been another Raj. The guide we had for this excursion could not hide his disdain for such "pluck" in a woman. The Indians can be mysogynists, but they also take pride in the magnificence and melodrama of these past rulers and their kingdoms. They all love a good story (talk to the Hindus about Siva and Shiva....could go on for days) and the story of this kingdom ended the "wrong way" by the look on the guide's face.

Love doesn't conquer all things, but it certainly inspires humans to great deeds. We are off to Agra to view the Taj Mahal today. One of the seven wonders of the ancient world, the complex was built as an homage to Shah Jahan's favorite wife, whom he loved deeply. She died giving childbirth and the Taj is her tomb. Its beauty has been referred to by thousands over the centuries. It took something like 30 years to complete. Unfortunately, upon completion, Shah's son locked him up in a tower and took over control of the Mughal empire. Until his death, Shad Jahan could only view the Taj from afar. He is entombed next to his wife now.

No person could be ambivalent about finally seeing the Taj Mahal in person. It is said the proportions are perfect and that the color of the stone changes hourly as the sun moves across the sky. Once again, we awake to pouring rain. It lasts most of the morning. We are told that we will be going anyway, but noone is in a happy mood. Rain is NOT supposed to happen in Rajasthan at this time of year. Dripping wet, we stand in line at the only site in India where there has been a security check. We are all patted down and every bag and camera is checked. (We were told on the bus that we could only take cameras and "wine coolers" into the gates. That confused us but we were compliant.)

None the less, our entire group was awestruck and anxious to get a closer look. The guide we had was yelling at us through the rain that we had to stay together and get our pictures taken first by a professional photographer (another way to squeeze a few more bucks out of the tourists). It's been a long week and all decorum leaves the group. Most people refuse and whine about being treated like children. It is the first sane thing we've done in hours!! We grab the booties we were given to cover our shoes before entering the tomb...which is only ceremonial because it is sloppy wet and muddy and we have to put them on outside, 150 yards from the entrance.

The sun shows itself for about a half an hour. We walk around and around the tomb marvelling at all the inlaid stone, the arabesque patterns in the walkways underfoot and the garden pools. The minarets on the four corners are actually constructed to lean a little outward so that it will compensate for the optical tricks that would occur in our eyes, as if they were tipping inward. This is a beauty under any conditions. We are lucky enough to get one of the very few photos of the Taj Mahal with black thunderclouds looming over the dome.

This followed by a.....grand luncheon(what a surprise!). All of us smell like wet dogs. The only thing I am interested in is where to find the "wine coolers" we could have taken into the Taj. I ask Muhammed, the train director, and he laughs a great big belly laugh and thanks me for sharing such a good joke. He explains that the guide was having trouble with pronouncing an English word and putting the stress on the correct syllable. He tried to say "binoculars" but it came out wine-a-COO-lars. Don't you just love that?

One more shopping trip. The ride through the dirt streets of Agra reveals one of the most filthy places I have ever visited, aside from the warehouses near the New Jersey docks. (another story for later) And yet this will be the place where my husband and I will fall in love again. And it happens in a little antique shop on a back street where we were supposed to being paying attention to something else entirely.

On Breakfast, Booze, Beauty and Barfing

For breakfast, you can have pretty much anything you want on the Palace on Wheels, and it's served in a small lounge area in your car, so you share with the other 3 couples. If you ask for cereal, you get muesli with warm milk. I'm not a fan.

Udaipur, the White City, is the cleanest we've seen yet, with the exception of Simla. It's a city of 500,000, with 2 million tourists/year, surrounded by mountains and lakes. We start the day with a tour of the grounds of a haveli in the embassy/up-class section of Udaipur. The owner's daughter remarked that she loved the rain, but just didn't dig the clouds that came with it, so he built a series of fountains to please her. Later in life, she became a drug addict and a serial killer and wiped out her entire family, starting with Daddy. OK, I made that last part up.

Next, we go to (wait for it) a Fort. It's huge, it's spectacular, it's really astounding, but I'm on the lookout for places I might be able to use as discreet Barf Stations. I have the Restroom Radar on full alert Super Doppler Mode, as thundery developments are forming in the South, and I want to be ready.

We take a lunchbreak at the Fort's sumptuous restaurant, complete with good entertainment - music and Rajasthani dancers. I have 2 scoops of ice cream for lunch, Max even less, then it's onto a boat for a tour of the adjoining Lake Pichola. We circle the Lake Palace, where parts of Octopussy were filmed (it's a beautiful white palace seemingly floating on the lake), drift past the new Oberoi Hotel where you can get a room that starts at $1,500/night, and dock at a lesser palace for tea and biscuits. It's been almost 2 hours since we had lunch, so nourishment was essential.

I'm feeling like the Goodyear Blimp on steroids and search out a rest room. It's a very classy restaurant, with seating on a patio area overlooking the lake, and when I enter the rest room, there's an attendant with a disinfectant aerosol in his hand, pointing me towrds the toilet. Only problem is, the toilet has a very thin plastic seat, covered in some sort of grime. He's probably had that aerosol can in his hand for months. I exit immediately.

We have tea with Nathan and Bill, two gay guys from the train, who are both artists - one is a graphic designer, the other a teacher at George Washington U. Very interesting conversation about life in the Capital.

Before we return to the POW, we go downtown Udaipur to the City Palace, the largest palace in Rajasthan. It's actually a complex of several palaces covering an area of 5 acres and built or added to by 22 Maharajahs. Fortunately, we only do an acre or so, but it's still extremely interesting. Part of the complex is a park that has several astronomic sculptures, for want of a better name. These are huge sun dials and other instruments (you can climb all over them) that accurately predict several cosmic events.

Back at the Palace on Wheels, we pick at our dinner, hardly eating at all. Our appetite has disappeared after eating at 5 star restaurants for 4 weeks.

A word about alcohol: If you want a 1.5 oz. scotch on the POW, it will cost you about half the cost of a bottle at a liquor store ($11). I bought a bottle of unremarkable (but also un-Indian) chablis for the table one night and it cost $60. Imported booze is expensive, Indian booze is repulsive. Take your pick. I want to believe the non-drinking Hindus (yeah, right) overcharge as a means of discouraging consumption, but that would be too cool. It's all about taxes. Stick to Kingfisher Beer, if you go - a pretty good beer.

Listening to Indians talk can be amusing. On the other hand almost everyone speaks better English than I do Hindi. For example: our laundry didn't get done in Jodhpur because there was no "electra-city". The Lake Palace was used for weddings by "cele-britties" with the emphasis in both cases on the last syllables. The funniest example of Indian English will take place in Agra at the Taj Mahal, but that's another story.

See how I keep the teaser thing going?

Only Human

Here we are in Rajhasthan, on a train built for the Maharajahs, and we are being treated like kings and queens ( or as closely to that as possible considering that there we are traveling in a "royal group" of 100 persons). We do not have to handle any money for entry fees or search about for a safe place to dine. Every meal that is not consumed on the train is at a five star hotel and is a lavish buffet. But those little buggies can travel anywhere and Tucker is down and out for the day.

We are awoken at 5 am. Udesh insists on Tucker downing some kind of salts that will replenish the bodies liquids, but it looks mysteriously like the same type of "salts" one would use to purge oneself before a certain type of lower intestinal exam. I will be on my own today. I dress in as many layers as possible. We are given a "snack" that we will consume in the bush, as the tour begins at 6 a.m. sharp. We are taken by motor coach to the game preserve and then are loaded into trucks that seat about 20 people..... that seating is "sardine style" and I am sitting right above the back wheel. It is foggy. Our guide is almost impossible to understand. The indigenous plants and birds were the most interesting wildlife that we would see. The truck bounces and slides around the wet and slippery tire tracks that pass as "roads" through the bush. We arrive at a clearing and are informed that we will have our breakfast here and are informed that there are "toilets" for the women somewhere over a hill. The men are advised to choose a tree.

I pass on the outdoor relief. Our breakfast consists of bread and butter sandwiches, two oranges and a juice box. Pretty benign. But I have suddenly lost my apetite and the bread and butter isn't going down easily. I begin hoping that it will rain because the clouds have not lifted. I just want to put my weary head down and rest.

No tigers to be seen today. When we finally arrive back at the train, my poor husband is still in the grips of the Delhi Belly. I am cold and tired and get into my wee bed for the rest of the day. At five o'clock, Umesh invites himself in and proclaims that he would like to see us get up and try to take some dinner. Tucker flatly refuses. I get dressed and promise to bring him back some naan bread, some rice and more water. I pick at dinner, find young waiters that are falling all over each other trying to prepare a care package for Tucker and excuse myself from the table before the last course is served. I have resigned myself to the fact that I will be joining my husband in the sick room tomorrow.

We both awaken on the next day feeling better. In fact, I feel like my old self again with only one exception. I have lost my apetite (and will not regain it again until we arrive home in good old Greenfield Center). Tucker is fine as long as food is not even mentioned. And it is going to be another 6:30 am excursion this morning.....into the bush on bicycle rickshaw to view the birds at a special sanctuary. I have actually been looking forward to this. And we will not have to deal with breakfast until we return to the train.

But the Travel Gods have spoken loud and clear that life just isn't that easy. Much like the camel ride, we get about as far away from the entrance to the park as one can get and then the heavens open up with another thunderstorm (a rare occurance at this time of year). We have been given tiny umbrellas as insurance but they are all but useless. We arrive at the bus soaked to the skin. The members of our "bus group" take it gracefully because we now assume that we are the jinx.

Breakfast of tea and dry toast and off to Udaipur. Just eating very small amounts seems OK. Then I realize that we are spending more time sitting than walking, that we have only had a week to try and get our bodies to accept that dinner is served at 2 am our body time, and that all Indian food dishes are created with the same seasonings. I'm beginning to crave lasagna and boeuf bourgignon. We are used to more variety in our diet, smaller portions and only two meals a day. I could not handle Maharani life if it meant huge feasts of food spiced with garram masala every day. I'm only human.

The Only City Named After a Pair of Pants

Feb. 10th, 2007: In today's news, there is a front page colour photo in the Hindustan Times, showing the foot and a half blanket of snow covering Simla. When we were there, we had temps in the 60's and they'd had no snow during the winter, same as at home in Saratoga. Highly unusual in both cases. The other weather news was a complete summary of weather conditions throughout the nation - yesterday's weather, no forecast. Also, traffic was brought to a standstill in Delhi because of rain and there were frequent blackouts. An electric utility spokesman explained the power outages as being caused by "moisture in the air." The only other news of note was that about 800 cops in Kerala State were written up for a variety of no-no's, including rape, murder, torture, sexual abuse, that sort of misdemeanour. I privately hoped that the "writing up" would show these bad boys the evil of their ways.

Were getting a little rain in Jodhpur ourselves. This is the Blue City, with many houses painted that hue. The reasons for this are either 1) blue is the colour of the Brahmins, the highest caste and everyone wanted to suggest that they were high class dudes or 2) a blue wash was believed effective in keeping mosquitoes away.

The 700 year old Mehrangarh Fort rises above Jodhpur on a 410 foot rock and is the most flamboyantly decorated fort in Rajasthan. The rich detail in every one of the rooms of the Royal Apartment give you an idea of just how wealthy the wealthy were.The Blob Sisters stayed in the bus after taking a look at the daunting anti-gravitational effort required to see the Fort.

Lunch was at the Umaid Bhavan Palace, a spectacularly gorgeous modern structure built in 1929 by an Indian Prince and sporting 347 rooms, including 8 dining halls and a vast underground swimming pool. The owner, Maharajah Umaid Singh commissioned it to provide work for his famine-stricken subjects and it took 3,000 men working for 15 years to complete it. They were working on Indian Time, of course (soon come, Sahib), but nonetheless...

Back at the Palace on Wheels, I'm feeling a little dodgy at dinner and spend the night in the bathroom of our stateroom. The dreaded Delhi Belly has struck. No sleep, so I stay in bed while Max gets up at an ungodly hour the next day to take a cold, bumpy jeep trip into the Tiger Sanctuary, but no tiger is seen.

We both skip the excursion into Chittagarh that afternoon, and reports from the returning tour members are mediocre, so we don't feel too bad. Tomorrow is Udaipur.

Soul Searching

It is hard to even guess at what will stay with you after a long journey to an exotic place. It is hard to explain to people who ask you, "Why would you want to go there?"

Looking at the photos that I have chosen to include in this journal entry, one has to notice that America is missing something. We may have architecture that captures the spirit of newness and modern invention, but we do not have the opportunity here at home to internalize the history of Mankind through ancient masterpieces. We don't have the same grounding that an Asian, African or European enjoys. Travel can be a way to find one's roots.

I find my "ancestors" in the details carved on a bracket or etched on a wall. Just look at the ceremonial care taken to embellish a doorway or embroider a fabric. The need to make Art. The Human Touch. The Mother of Modern Invention. Whether it be Emperor or Pharaoh or Rajah or Shogun or King, one has to be thankful that they left something behind for the rest of us. They may not have been democratic in their use of power, but they gave testament to the intelligence and ingenuity of Man throughout time. India's national treasures are some of the most beautiful and spectacular we have ever seen. They reflect a civilization with the creativity and grandness of ancient Egypt or Japan or Renaissance Europe or any Chinese Dynasty. You just don't get the same feeling from a log cabin or a quilt. (and will pine and poplin stand the test of time?)

The ancient world still resounds in the human soul. Foreign travel is the authentic Antique Roadshow. It's the Time Machine Trip. It's the Big Wow that lasts forever. It is humbling. Makes you think about what future travelers will say about America in 3000 years when we rightfully take our place among the Old Sages. ( I hope everyone wants to go there.)

Jaisalmer, The Golden City

We wake up in Jaisalmer, a city that many consider the most interesting in Rajasthan. I like it because it's smaller than Jaipur, and, because we spend all our time in the ancient walled city/fort that is surrounded by the more modern Jaisalmer, it is more laid back. About 3,000 people still live in the walled fort and walking the streets is a fascinating exercise, as there are no 4-wheeled vehicles allowed and it's almost possible to believe you're back in the days of the Rajput.

We walk (OK, the Blobs take a motor rickshaw) through the Fort gates and through narrow cobblestone streets to a Jain Temple, one of many in the city. The Jains believe they cannot harm any living animal, including insects, and can be seen wearing face covers to avoid the inadvertent inhaling of an insect, sweeping the ground in front of them as they walk to avoid insect fatalities, etc. They even avoid eating root vegetables, in case the uprooting causes an accidental slugicide, or whatever.

The temple has ornate marble carvings, some quite erotic, on the interior walls

(see photo). We remove our shoes, as usual, before entering.

At one point in our city wanderings, we pause while some rogue cattle from our group are rounded up, having apparently made a wrong turn at some point. We enjoy the chance to just observe what's going on in Jaisalmer. A hundred yards away, we see a group of women squatting with their kaleidoscopic saris covering their heads as they mourn the passing of a friend's family member (see photo). While waiting on some steps, we look down and see fecal matter passing by in the open sewer. A colourful Ganesh is painted on a nearby door to bring luck to a newlywed couple.

Jaisalmer is famous for its havelis. Havelis are the homes of the super-rich of the Rajput dynasties. They have intricately carved screens and balconies on their golden stone facades and are overwhelming in their beauty (see photo).

After another lunch that is absolutely fabulous, it's Camel Riding Time. We're bused out into the far western reaches of the Thar Desert, not far from the Pakistani border, keeping a keen eye out for Osama. We're loaded onto camels, two per. Ahead of us, a 75 year-old lady from our bus is paired with a 65-70 year-old male from Germany. As the beast rises to its feet, it galumphs forward and then back (or vice versa, I'm not sure). At any rate, the heads of the two riders smacked together rather loudly. Things would get worse.

Once on the camel, we lurch out into the dunes, led by a young lad, our Camel Meister. Just as a public service to any of you out there who may want to do this in the future, I would advise you, if you're a male/female couple to say the hell with gallantry and ensure that the female take the stern mount. If you're a male who has never been castrated, this position is a tad excruciatingly painful. I'll delicately leave it at that.

Near the end of the 1/2 hour of torture, the darkening clouds that have been teasing us break out in all the fury of a desert rain/hail/sandstorm. We dismount and head to the bus, not able to raise our eyes to get our bearings for more than a second at a time, and stagger onto the bus having been totally soaked, then dipped in a coating of sand batter. But we were the lucky ones.

The two elderly riders mentioned earlier were on a donkey that was spooked by the thunder/rain/sand/hail, causing the man to partially fall off the camel, causing the camel to spook even more, causing the 75 year-old woman to fall off, but with her foot still in the stirrup, and be dragged across the sand.

She was taken by the POW/camel ride people to a crude hut near our bus and then just abandoned. The two guys from our train car, John Kennedy and Bill Cannon, go into the hut after it's clear she's being ignored by the staff, and carry her onto the bus. She's sustained a broken ankle, pulled ligaments, etc. He's got a collar bone with two fractures. And we're 'way out in the desert.

After an hour trip back to Jaisalmer, she's taken into a crude "clinic", with no medical facilities to speak of. Bill Cannon and a nurse from England on our bus spent many hours for the remainder of the week looking after her and ensuring she got taken care of by her insurance company. She ended up staying on the train until we reached Delhi 5 days later, then being flown home 1st class with a nurse accompanying her.

That night we eat at a wonderful restaurant with decent entertainment. Another full day.