Theme Magazine: The Travel Issue

Check out Japan-based Theme Magazine's tribute to travel. It's got hot picks of fashion abroad, art, and good old fashion R&R-with a gritty edge.

Theme Magazine

Tatiana

Namaste

Note: I will be adding to this post as I complete writing. Stay tuned.
Tatiana

Mon 19May
Heat. That is the first thing I felt as I disembarked the plane and headed to customs. We picked up our luggage, filled out some forms and we were in. Then we changed some money for a few thousand rupees. This was the easy part. As we walked out into the madness of the arrivals hall, I searched for our cab driver who would take us to our hotel in New Delhi. I had no idea what this hotel would be like, but Lonely Planet recommended it, and it was past 11 at night, so I said a prayer, hopped in the car, and drove through the dusty, car-filled highways to our first destination.

We arrived at our hotel sometime around 12am, in the Parah Ganj area of New Delhi- some dusty, construction-filled hole-in-the-wall motel with dim lighting and questionable-looking staff. The manager took our information, and our passports-something we were not used to (why did they need our PASSPORT information??), we paid for 1 night’s stay, and walked to our rooms, exhausted, needing a shower and a toilet. We open the door to this box of a room, with oil-spotted sheets, ragged towels, and tattered red carpet, turned brown form years of neglect. Eli and I glanced at each other, and headed to the bathroom, which was, let’s say, useable. The shower was much like the ones we were used to in Africa-no tub, just a showerhead, a drain and a bucket. We asked the hotel employee to bring us a fresh pair of sheets, and some toilet paper. 10 minutes later he brings us a pair of equally dingy, oily sheets, and offers a roll of expensive toilet paper for sale. We resolved to sleep on top of our clothes from the day, spray the bed with bug repellant, and say a prayer for the night. But we were still hungry, and we needed toilet paper. We headed out of our hotel onto Main Bazaar road in search of a toilet paper bargain, asking several street vendors for their best price. Eli is a bargainer, so this was sport for him. I was more interested in grabbing a cup of chai, or maybe some ice cream, getting the toilet paper, and heading back to the hotel. We found a vendor that was making fresh chai, and in hindsight, I realize I got ripped off by paying 75% more than I should have for that cup. My first ripoff!

Eli and I noticed quite a few other hotels open, and decided to peer into a few. We definitely would be checking out of ours the next day. We bumped into this hippie Israeli woman-about 50 or so-and she gave us a rundown of the area. Then the unthinkable happened. We turned around and noticed a small rumbling of voices. A white guy, around 30 or so, was being surrounded by about 5 Indian men. As they yelled and made jokes at him, their taunts became progressively angrier, and the group grabbed the man, slapping him in the face. The mob stopped a few feet from us, and the Israeli woman, seeing the commotion, bravely stepped in to stop the abuse on the man. One of the Indian men flashed an ID, saying that he was the police, and that this man was selling drugs, but he really wasn’t that believable. Eli and I watched in horror as the Indian men beat and slapped the man, stealing his belongings from his pockets. I remember distinctly the fear in that man’s eyes, his dirt blond hair covering part of his face. He was obviously extremely high, as he could not fully decipher the situation, and was at a loss for words. The men continued to harass the hapless man, and then dragged him into a back alley. We quickly walked away when we had the chance, grabbed our toilet paper, and booked it back to the hotel. Welcome to India.

Tue20May
I wasted no time getting up the next day, because I generally don’t sleep for longer than 4 hours. But I think my body was just whacked out. It was 8:30 am. Not wanting to spend any more time in our tragic motel, I headed out to find an internet café and book a hotel for the next leg of our trip. Stepping out of the hotel was stepping into another world. It had rained that morning, so the streets were filled with soggy, reddish mud cluttered with trash, animal feces, food and other effects. Lone dogs walked alongside pedestrians, scrawny buffalo eased their way through narrow pathways, and sidewalk chefs whipped up fried concoctions. Rancid body odors mingled with the sweet smell of freshly cooked Indian candies, and the streets teemed with people just starting their day. Simple shop owners hawked their wares, and sparkling saris hung from makeshift shop stalls. Overwhelmed by the sensory overload, I failed to realize that I was walking on the wrong side of the street, and nearly got flattened by a rickshaw. Every step I took, there was a honk, as cars, auto-rickshaws, and cow-hearders, pronounced their frustration at the foreigner. I quickly found an internet café, and popped in side, away from the madness.

After lingering on the ‘net I ventured back outside into the frenzy, determined to get back to the hotel in one piece. But I was struck by a sari shop, and without thinking stepped inside. I was surrounded by explosive colors of fuchsia, olive, purple, blue, and orange tunics. Delicately embroidered tops and pants caught my eye, The shop owner, seeing my eyes glazed in amazement, threw down a large pillow and implored me to sit. I explained that I was in a rush, but the owner ignored my pleas, piling my arms with endless heaps of colorful salwar kameez* and richly-colored saris. He then lead me upstairs to an even finer collection of womens-wear, and after much deliberation, I ended up buying about 5 outfits for my friends and family.

I returned to the hotel, exhausted from my tiny excursion, only to find Eli still asleep. It was only 10:30, but I felt like I had been out for hours! We only had an hour and a half to find a new hotel, pack our things, and head out. And knowing that Eli easily spends a good hour in the shower ‘cleansing’ I knew this task could be a problem. But we made it out at 11:30, and despite the 12:00 check-out time, the manager extended our stay for an additional hour.

People, shops, and stuff. Everywhere.

The cows just don't care.

A typical street full of rickshaws. It doesn't look busy here, but...

I mentioned how Eli is a born haggler. We must have looked at about 10 hotels, just for the sake of looking. We walked down the Main Bazaar road in the direction of what we thought would lead to the New Delhi train station. Instead we had walked to the opposite end, arriving at a nondescript albeit bustling street, all the while looking at hotel prospects. At one point I had adamantly decided on a clean, well-sized hotel near this same street, and while I thought we both agreed that the price and accommodation were a great deal, Eli still searched for other possibilities. Hot, sweaty, and annoyed, I wandered off to a vendor selling fresh mango lassis and settled down, away from the crazy streets. The shade of the vendor offered hardly any comfort as the 110º heat mixed the funk of the streets with the sugary smell of over-ripened mangoes. I watched at he sliced the fleshy mangoes and put them in a hand blender filled with ice. He then opened a large vat of chilled yogurt, poured a bit into a metal cup and mixed in the blended fruit. Handing it to me, I told him that I wanted it to go, and he simply put the mixture in a plastic bag and sent me on my way. I bit off the edge of the bag, sat on a dirty bench, and savored the icy sweetness of the treat. For one moment I was relaxed, happy, and careless. The pristine white dress I wore was now covered with street grime and the unidentified splashes from wild animals and pedi-rickshaws. I was ready to shower, and settle down. It was 12pm.

The madness of Main Bazaar Rd.

We finally decided on Hotel New, my original selection, at a bargain price. We made our way back to our original hotel, collected our belongings, and headed to our new hotel. Eli, ever the haggler, insisted on finding yet another hotel, because someone offered. I had already made my decision, and kept walking to our selected hotel. Walking around with a traveler’s backpack, up and down steps, viewing trashy, overpriced hotels in hot, humid weather was not how I wanted to spend the little time I had in India. Once we settled down and showered, we headed back out to get our train tickets to Agra. We spent nearly the entire day walking down one street popping into several shops. Eli was comparison-shopping. I was trying to get to the train station; I could always shop later. Business first. We got to the New Delhi train station, and were horrified to see the main floor of the station covered with sleeping Indian families, suitcases, chickens, and aggressive men pushing forward on a line with no apparent lines. We glanced up to try and decipher the train queues and departures but were dismayed to find them all in Hindi! What to do! I finally pushed my way to the front of an information line and yelled “Shatabdi express!” The woman at the window directed me to a tourist room above the main lobby that could assist me in buying a ticket. Eli and I quickly made our way upstairs to the serenity of the Tourist Information Center, where there was no line, friendly staff and air conditioning. We were well on our way to ordering all of our tickets until the ticket agent asked us to produce our passports. I had made it a point to carry all of my most important documents close to my body at all times in a discreet body pouch near my chest. No way would I be leaving my documents in some shady hotel. Eli left everything he had at the hotel except for his cash, which would not do. So we basically had to go back to our hotel at the opposite end of the Bazaar, get his documents, and come back to Station before 7:30. Given that we started off late and spent half the day looking at hotels even though we already had one, my mood wasn’t exactly friendly.

And it was 4pm. Going back down Main Bazaar Rd was an exercise in self- restraint. And when it comes to shopping, I have absolutely none. So I ended up purchasing a bunch of shirts, and shoes, and… so many things, I can’t even remember! When we finally got back to the hotel, it was nearly 6pm, and we had little time before the ticket window closed. So we hopped into our first rickshaw, but not until Eli haggled with the 20 or so drivers for the best price. And we arrived at the station with 15 minutes to spare.

Our first pedi-rickshaw

After a day of shopping we were ravaged. Along the streets surrounding Connaught Place, we found a slew of “Vegetarian” and “Pure Veg” restaurants. Eli, a vegan with stringent requirements, was elated. After surveying a few places, we settled on a place that was well priced and smelled absolutely delicious. In front of the several of the shops, the chefs worked at a maddening pace over huge woks and boiling pots of curries and exotic sauces. I could smell the sumptuous mix of onions and coriander, tomatos, salt, cilantro and various other spices.

A typical street kitchen

We step inside and order; Eli orders mix vegetable masala, and I ordered a vegetable korma. We were practically salivating as our dishes came to us, until Eli noticed tiny pieces of a certain shredded something that looked an awful lot like cheese. But when we inquired the waiter about it, he spoke no English, so he couldn’t understand Eli, when he tried to explain the concept of Vegan. We quickly learned that “Pure Veg” meant occasional dashes of paneer, doodh, or makkhan, without apology. I ate Eli’s plate, and we headed for another spot where he would possibly be a little luckier.

Corner "Delhi". Pure Veg Restaurants in Delhi.

We found a place, and he indulged in freshly baked garlic nan, and mixed vegetable masala. And this time the waiter understood—no cheese, no milk, and no butter. Satisfied, we made our way back down the main bazaar strip. It was past 8pm, and Eli still had the urge to comparison-shop. I was intent on getting my hands henna tattooed, and I would leave him if need be. Which is exactly what happened. We agreed to meet at an ice cream stand that we recognized within 2 hours if we weren’t in each other’s sight. I found a group of artisans working in a huddle along the bazaar offering their henna styles. I quickly sat down to get my hands done, after haggling for a price I thought was appropriate. Before long, the artist’s friend sat own beside us, and began designing an extremely ornate design on my arm, even though I explicitly told him that I would only be paying a certain price. And I’m splayed out, and unable to move with all the wet henna on my arms. Well, apparently they tried to con me by saying that I had agreed to pay my price for ONE arm, and not both. A disagreement quickly escalated to a full-blown argument, and I ended up dragging in an officer standing nearby to settle the dispute. In the end, the thieves let off, I paid them my original price, and left, in search of Eli.

He was nowhere to be found. Frustrated, I waited by the ice cream stand before going back to the hotel. But not before snagging some mangoes from a fruit stand. The manager at the hotel hadn’t seen Eli, so I ventured back out. By now, it was pretty dark, but still lively, the streets buzzing with men and women drinking chai and watching the latest cricket game. I finally came upon Eli nestled in a bookstore reading about Sri Lanka, a place he had no idea about, but desperately wanted to go. He had made friends with Josh, a man who claimed to live on the Upper West Side. On 119th St. Eli and I laughed and gently informed him that he actually lived in Harlem—not to far from Eli’s house—and that we would visit some time.


Wed21May
The day starts early. Our train to Agra leaves at 6:15, and I am worried because Eli takes forever to get up and get ready. Me being the female and the primper, I thought it would be the other way around. But somehow, I was ready, new outfit, hair, makeup, and all. We hopped in an auto-rickshaw in the pouring rain, and jetted to the New Delhi train station where we boarded the Shatabdi express with 10 minutes to spare.

Monkeying around in Agra.

We get off the train and Eli looks at me expectantly as if I’ve arranged transportation to our hotel. I hadn’t. Instead we head to the tourist center for information, and meet a rickshaw driver along the way. Sam greeted us, and promised us a great price to our hotel. Charming as he was, we didn’t fall immediately, until we realized that he had the best price, and immediately gave us a few good tips for our stay in Agra. He immediately tried to convince us to go on his tour which was about 250 rupees. We were cynical at this point, because we really didn’t want to be ‘had’ so soon on our trip. Sam dropped us at our first hotel. Shanti Lodge, was what Lonely Planet described as a great value with great views from their ‘deluxe room’, should have been dubbed “Shanty Lodge”.

"Shanty" Lodge

Stepping out the car, we were greeted with a strong fecal smell of the open sewage that ran along the perimeters of the buildings on the small road. Inside, the rooms were dark and dusty, and the view wasn’t anything to rave about. Especially when the rooftop restaurant was dilapidated, color-less, and distracting. I definitely wasn’t in the mood to look around, but Eli insisted that we try out other hotels. I was in no mood to cart around my huge travel bag, but luckily Sam let us keep our bags in the rickshaw while one of us inspected the hotels.

Wonder where the smell came from.

We finally settled on a neighboring lodge called “Saniya Palace Inn”. I actually liked this one –it was bright, airy, and had a wonderful mid-level courtyard that was outside and inside at the same time. A perfect place for lounging with a book and some chai. We were given our rooms, and finally settled down to begin unpacking. Maybe 30 minutes later, Eli decides that he wants to explore the hotel and maybe find a better room. My nerves were absolutely frayed. I was not only about to take a shower, but I had unpacked my clothing when Eli decides that we should move across the way to a better room that has a small view of the Taj Mahal. The room was a little nicer, and had a little table, so I grudgingly agreed, packed my things, and moved to the new room.

Sam took us all over the place in Agra, although in hindsight, we probably should have went to the Taj first. Then we would have known that our entrance fee would include admission to several other places that Sam had taken us to, but had no interest in paying for. We visited Agra Fort, the Baby Taj, and a series of other architectural monuments throughout the day, but we basically looked to Sam as our personal driver. At one point we were pretty hungry, and needed a vegan spot. But all the places Sam was taking us to were Vegetarian and Meat menus, which is a strict no-no for most vegans. I saw one restaurant that listed ‘pure veg’ but Sam took us to the one right beside it! Frustrated, Eli saw the ploy, got out of the rickshaw, and walked to the restaurant I had pointed out. Sam was taking us to all his ‘spots’ to get commission. What a farce! We went to our restaurant, against Sam's suggestion, which pissed him off, since we hadn't been to many of his suggested sights all day. He was basically getting paid to be our personal driver at 200 Rupees-his price- and no perks.

The "Baby Taj"

A family makes manure cakes for farming behind the Baby Taj

The back of the Taj Mahal

At Agra Fort. Yes, I am wearing shoes.

After enjoying our meal, I was in the mood for a massage, and what do you know—Sam knows of an excellent masseuse in town. So we go, and Eli thankfully haggles down the price for 2 treatments: an hour-long massage, and medicinal heat compress. Unfortunately for Eli, the women would not massage him, as it is custom for women/women, man/man bodywork. This didn’t sit well with him at all, so he had to sit it out while I indulged. By this time Sam is fed up, because we made him lose commission on several stores, and Eli had agitated him to his outer limits. We headed back to the rickshaw, but Sam instead pointed in the direction of our hotel. "You can go this way. It's not far". He wasn’t driving us home-he was going home to watch the cricket match! So we found our way back in the night along the bustling streets of Agra.

Back at the hotel, we had hoped to view a moonlit Taj, but that would not be the case. The sky was overcast, so we instead had to settle for the deep outline of the monument against the grey sky.

---
It may have been 2 am when I woke to a drip on my face. Half sleep, I rolled over towards Eli, in dream-state. Another few drips fell on my shoulder and I slid closer to him subconsciously as the drips followed me. Then the random sound of drips could be heard on his side of the bed. Eli popped his head up suddenly. “Water! It’s…raining! In… the room!” When our minds finally deciphered what was happening we immediately jumped out of our beds before the ceiling came flooding down with rain! Outside we could hear the winds whistling as torrential rains surrounded the building. We quickly moved our belongings towards the door, and flipped the light switch. And then the lights went out in the village. We could hear the footsteps of some of the staff who brought up battery powered florescent lights to help us see. Outside of our rooms you could hear the cries of people who had likely slept outside and gotten caught in the storm. Who would have known it would rain? It was as hot and arid as it could be that day! WE eventually moved our stuff bag to the original room we were given, and I silently cursed Eli for being so damn picky. But I slept soundly, eager for the Taj at sunrise.

Thur22May

The Taj at sunrise that never was...

Despite our lack of sleep, Eli and I woke up promptly at 5am to go to the rooftop restaurant to view the Taj. We waited eagerly, but we wouldn’t see a sunrise that morning. The sky was overcast, and we could barely make out the silhouette of the Taj over the city buildings. The sun never came, and instead the Taj sat, whitewashed against a dull grey sky.

The singing from the mosques reminded me of waking up my first day in Africa. Beautiful, and haunting.

We decided to get dressed and go to the building early to avoid the crowds. Luckily, it was only a 5 minute walk away from the hotel because when we arrived at the gate it started to lightly drizzle. We purchased our entrance tickets and headed back to the hotel to sleep it out in hopes of a sunnier view later on in the day. Back at the hotel, I took some time to drink a little chai, read, have breakfast, and chat with the staff. Since Eli was asleep, I finally had some time to myself without Eli’s irritating, obnoxious behavior. An older staffer, Babou made me a fresh pot of chai and told me about his simple life in Agra with his wife and 2 daughters. He was about my height, and spoke a little English, but a soft gentle tone, and easy conversation were welcome after dealing with Eli’s boisterous personality the first few days of the trip. Babou, a man in his mid-50’s, appeared to be worn out from life. His wife always suspected him of cheating, so he spent most of his nights sleeping in the street in an empty rickshaw. He had taken in an orphaned boy to come work with him in the hotel. The boy’s father had hung himself after suffering the depression of his wife leaving him. The little boy brought me my kettle of tea, and in his inexperience, handed the boiling kettle to me without a cloth to shield my fingers from the heat. It was a simple annoyance to me. All I could think of is how this boy’s life would most likely be relegated to serving people. The stories of Babou and the boy would be a theme that I would hear throughout my trip. A simple life riddled with depression, and the constant search for a way out. Any connection with a foreigner was a potential for change.

A random wedding procession...

East Gate Entrance to the Taj Mahal.

Eli finally awoke at around 2pm, and we got dressed to have breakfast and view the Taj. I though I would wear an orange butterfly-like dress with a scarf.

Was that a bad choice.

The wind blew my skirt every which way, and groups of men stared expectantly, waiting for an opportune moment to view some skin. But what started as groups of men staring, quickly became older men, women, and children. I thought that it couldn’t be the dress, but I felt awkward anyway, and stood to the side while Eli busied himself taking pictures. That was when we were first approached.

A calm wind moment in front of the Taj. Eli wasn't the only one taking my picture.

“Can we take your picture?” A group of teenage boys boldly asked. Suddenly, we were the star attraction, as everyone stopped in their tracks to see what the funny “African” couple would say. I was mortified. I came to see the Taj Mahal not be the main attraction. Throughout our visit, we would encounter groups of Indians slowly passing us by, staring in wonderment. Had they never seen Black people before? Probably not, as I was later told that many Indians don’t travel as much, and that travel is considered a “Western” phenomenon, though the younger Indian generation is more hip to the idea.


After a while the joke became tiring, and I actually started charging people 100 rupees to take my picture. I couldn’t enjoy myself with people staring at me, pointing fingers, and touching me to see if I was real. I felt like a freak. Somebody pulled one of Eli’s locks and he flipped out on the kid. Another girl came to me, looked up, and simple said “Wow.” Who knew that we would come to India’s star attraction, and become superstars ourselves!

A sun blessing. Finally!

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Thursday night, we took a train from Agra to Jaipur. This train was not nearly as nice as the Shatabdi, and there was no meal even though the ride was hours longer! We arrived in Jaipur at about 10:30 at night. Outside the station, I though of a smaller, cheesier Las Vegas, with glittering palm trees, and buildings strung with Christmas lights. Thankfully we found our rickshaw driver waiting for us, and we quickly made our way to hotel Karni Niwas. We were only due to stay there 2 nights, so I was praying that this hotel would be nice. And it was. The rooms were well lit, and extremely charming and clean. Eli, of course, wanted the AC and a bigger room, which would have been more expensive, but I didn’t feel it was necessary. I was especially tired after traveling, and really didn’t want to haggle at this time of night. So we settled in the room I had desired and called it a night.

Fri22May

Exploring Pink City

The next day I woke up early, took care of my laundry, and got a few items of clothing ironed for 10 rupees by a local tailor. The local children surrounded me in excitement, shaking my hand, and greeting me. A superstar in Jaipur! When I came back to the hotel, Eli was laying on the bed in dead-man’s pose, meditating, and listening to Indian chants on his Ipod. What a fool. “Eli,” I said, annoyed, “we’re in India. There’s an ashram down the street where you can meditate and listen to a real live person chanting.” I couldn’t believe that he could be so clueless and superficial. But that incident wasn’t the last. We quickly got dressed and headed out to explore the Old City (Pink City) and Monkey Temple.

Veggie Delight: Rajisthani Thali

Our first stop was a Vegetarian Restaurant that Eli was dying to try in the heart of Pink City. As we walked down the main road, we noticed that there were no tourists. And we knew why. Two weeks before, there had been a bombing in the city, that left the bustling tourist city nearly empty. Rickshaw drivers clamored to us, 5 at a time, begging us to use their services. Shopkeepers pleaded with us to buy their wares, even more so than on the crazy side streets of New Delhi. We were overwhelmed and hot in the 100º+ weather, but finally found our spot and settled down for our delicious meal. Again, we went through the ritual of explaining that Eli needed a vegan meal. Our waiter had no problem understanding us this time. In fact he clued us in to an important fact. The restaurants that we had previously chosen had told us that they would use an oil substitute instead of butter, milk, and cheese. This satisfied Eli, but the waiter at this restaurant told us that those other restaurants had probably been using ghee, and oil derived from the milk of goats and cows. “The only way you can be sure that there is absolutely no animal products is to eat only South Indian dishes like dosas.” This disquieted Eli, and changed his perspective on eating Indian food forever.

---

And? What?

We spent the rest of the day, exploring the endless array maze of bazaars in the Pink City. The history goes that the king divided the city into several blocks, each specializing in a different type of craft. We ventured to the jewelry bazaars, a favorite of Eli’s. The entire day was exhausting, and we ended up going back to the hotel to shower, change, and visit the Monkey Temple.

The peculiar sundials in the Old City

Making a delicious drink of pressed sugar cane and bits of lime. So delish!

The Monkey Temple, more formally known as the Temple of the God, rests on a cliff at the top of Jaipur. We made it there just in time to watch the sunset over the hazy city. The climb to the top was a Noah’s Ark of animals co-habitating peacefully together. And then there were the monkeys. But they weren’t as aggressive as I’ve heard people say. They seemed just as hot and tired as we were. Looking out over the city, I was finally able to think. I thanked God for the blessing of being happy and healthy, and giving me everything I needed. Who knew that He would have taken me this far?

Temple of the Sun God

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We left the monkey temple when the last hint of sun could be seen across the horizon. We had one more stop: The Vegetarian Om Revolving tower. The premise was cheesy- a revolving restaurant that gives full views of the city- but the main draw was the well-reviewed Vegetarian menu that Lonely Planet raved about. We had to have it. The presentation was spectacular, but the food was so-so. Not as good as the smaller, cheaper restaurant we went to earlier in the day. The food seemed a little off, though I couldn’t put my finger on it. But my waiter did. Instructing me on how to eat my food, he poked his finger on a piece of one of my thalis. I was so annoyed, that I didn’t finish it. By the time we finished the sky had opened up to a nasty storm, and we ran back to our hotel, since sitting in traffic in an open rickshaw was pointless to us.

---

We came home, showered and prepared to hit the bed. Eli passed out, completely wasted from the temple climb. My stomach was gurgling, and I ended up blessing the toilet for a good hour.

---

It was the middle of the night, and I woke up to Eli vomiting violently. The vomiting subsided, and I told him about my earlier episode. We attributed it to food poisoning and blamed it on the Om Restaurant. Hopefully, we’d feel better in the morning.

Sat23May

Morning came, and instead of going out to do yoga as we had planned, Eli stayed in. he hadn’t gotten any better, and just wanted to sleep it off. Whatever poison was left in me came out that morning, and I felt fine. I was more concerned with finding a good hotel for our next hotel in Goa since the hotel I had initially booked jacked up the price, even though it wasn’t high season.

We managed to make it to the airport and onto the flight. Just as we were about to board, Eli puked, and I just though “Oh God, they are NOT going to let us fly”. But he got on, and crashed on a seat in the back of the plane. I figured that once we got to Goa, on the sunny, hot beaches, spacious land, and the warm water, we would both feel a lot better. The city life was beginning to rattle us.

---

We got into Goa, and it was hotter than Delhi. I hired a car for us, and we took the hour long drive from the airport to one of the southernmost beaches in Goa-Palolem. We found a bright, clean hotel right off the main beach road, and settled in. Thankfully Eli wasn’t so picky because he was so sick. He just went in the room and crashed. I made him a concoction of salt and seltzer water to try and calm his stomach, and then ditched him to hit the beach. (I was on vacation!)

Ahhh...The beach

The Spiral Ark Project: One of my refuges away from a sick Eli, serving my new favorite drink, the Lemon Nana, a concoction of ice water, lemons, raw sugar, and crushed mint.

I cant write anymore, and honestly, I've already left out so much. There is just so much to say about this wild, crazy beautiful country called India. I just gave you a glimpse through my eyes. But I have plenty of stories to tell about the different people I met, and the things I saw and if you know me on that level, you'll probably hear (or have heard) about them. So I am stopping here, and leaving you in beautiful Goa, India. Someday, I will tell you about Bombay, but this will not be the day. Until next time. Namaste.

Black Parisian Goddess

Ceiling of the entrance of the Mosquee de Paris

I love Paris in more ways that most will know. I'm over the traditional tourist-y spots and now feel like I have a true love for the city. While I don't know it like the back of my hand, I will say that I've gotten to know some great secrets that have truly made my trips memorable.

I felt like I needed a rejuvenation, so my first stop in Paris this time 'round was the Hammam in the Mosque de Paris. When I went last August, I had stayed only long enough for a quick massage and thé de menthe. This time I made it a point to stay longer, and enjoy myself. The women of Paris are serious about their beauty, and it is apparent when you walk into the Hammam. For 38 euros you get entrance to the steam room and steam bath, a grommage-a healthy scrub-down with sea salts- a 10 minute massage, and a mint tea to finish things off. Once I placed my belongings in the locker
(1 euro, returned when you leave), I made my way to the steam area where women lingered in the 3 harem-like rooms decorated in ancient Arabic motifs. I must've stayed there for about an hour, it felt so refreshing. The mild cough that I had nearly disappeared. Afterwards, I went to take a cool shower using the olive oil soap paste given to me upon my entrance, and waited for my grommage. When it was my turn, a tough-looking Middle-Eastern woman ushered me onto a table, where I was scrubbed from head to toe, infant-like. She missed no crevice! Afterwards, I showered and went into the main massage room, where I was covered in rich-scented oils and massaged into oblivion. When she finished, my chocolate skin glistened like a newly-bathed child.
If you go, be sure to bring a bikini bottom, 1 or 2 towels (or be charged 4 euros!), a pair of flip flops, and some of your favorite beauty products. Masks and scrubs are perfect for this type of environment because the heat will literally melt dead skin away!

Visit the Hammam homepage here:


I also needed to get my hair done. I was in such a rush in New York, that I literally had no time to do my hair! In the summer, I had come upon a great section of African stylists and braiders at the Strousbourg-St. Denis station in Paris. I could have sworn I was in Harlem because the stylists in Paris grab you with even more aggressiveness than their Harlem brothers and sisters! I met a shop owner called Jo, and promised him that the next time I came, I would come to him to get my hair done. Big thanks to Jo and his hair mafia over at Jo Creations in Paris. Stylist Nana did a fabulous job with my "vanille" hairstyle, and I felt amazingly sexy! And I can't forget to mention that the prices where on point, and their weaves were undetectable! A must if you're a sister that needs to look right, but has a budget.
Owner Jo

Jo Creations
3, rue Gustave Goublier
75010 Paris
Tel: 0674740061

Bom Dia!*

(*Bohn JEE-yah, meaning "Good Day" in Portuguese)

A cheerfully painted home on a street just north of Pelhourino

My anticipations for Brazil have always been high. Ever since I was a little girl, I can remember catching my first glimpse of the country and her beautiful women in a spread in Allure Magazine. From then on I had always secretly wished that I had been born with the beauty of a Brazilian, and now, as an adult, I realize that the Brazilians and I are related in a much more profound level.

The following are a few journal entries:

10.20
Arrival

On the way from the airport

My first night I arrive, and I am overjoyed and shaking with anticipation. I am actually here, visiting the land of my childhood dreams! And on my birthday, of all things! I whisk through the corridor of long arching palm trees in the small car that Jean-Paul, the owner of the bed and breakfast of which I will be staying, is driving. It is deliciously warm, and I welcome the calm heat through my sweatsuit that had only hours before shielded me from the brisk New York autumn air. As we drive along, the soft breeze soothes my mind and cools my body, and I luxuriate in the fragrant air. Brasil.

We arrive at the pousada in Santo Antonio and Jean Paul leads me to my room where I unwind and thank God for getting me there in one piece. The room is wonderfully simplistic with its soft blue linens and nautically-inspired pillow cases. Adjacent to my bed are a set of French doors that lead out to an open area with a hammock. A hammock! I look up, and to my pleasant surprise I could see the rooftop of the adjacent house, and the deep, black, heavenly sky. That night I truly slept under the stars.

Something to wake up to...

10.21
Little Blessings

I wake up, well rested and a little bit frantic. What time is it?? How long have I slept? So much to do!!! I unroll myself from the hammock and rush to the doorless bathroom/shower and prepare myself for the day. I slip on a colorful bikini, a soft, simple white dress, a straw hat, and a beach bag loaded with my materials for the day. I would soon learn that less is more, and less--is the Brazilian way!

Down the winding stairs from my room I walk, hungrily awaiting breakfast and positive that I had missed the meal. I was shocked to realize that it was only 10 in the morning! I could have sworn it was much later because I remember waking up to the light and dozing back to sleep. What I learned later was that the sun rose a little after 5 o'clock-which would explain my body's 'early' rise.

This is breakfast.

As I descend, I smell the aroma of deeply roasted coffee and the soft, sweet smell of vanilla and fruit. Zelima, Jean-Paul's wife, and hostess, welcomes me to breakfast. As I sit at the table my eyes well with tears of joy. Before me lies a buffet of fresh fruits in every color of the rainbow-succulent, fully ripened mango slices, bananas, pineapples, wild melons, and other exotic fruits; a guava tarte; a raisin loaf; hot and crusty bread buns; passionfruit marmalade; sweet plantains; fresh yogurt and hearty granola; cold cuts and cheese, and miniature french toasts sprinkled with brown sugar. I sit there in profound happiness as the sun blesses the table with an incredible blazing light that soars over the rocky hills, past the palm tree leaves, through the open windows, and into my soul. I am in paradise.

The hill to Pelhourino

They say that Bahia is the land of happiness. I couldn't have named it better. My day, although simplistic, took me on a journey via foot from the tranquil yet lively working class neighborhood of Santo Antonio, down the hills to the storied Pelhourino, inside the lesser-traveled roads leading to Barroquina, through Comercio, and finally, gloriously, to Barra, where I began my beach sampling. I traveled down Oceania Avenue, past the gently imposing lighthouse, while watching capoeristas flaunt their agile, muscled bodies in the sand. The sea is a blue as ever, and the sun envelopes me with the intensity of a passionate lover. How could I be sad?

Lighthouse in Barra

I thoroughly soak in the day, tasting sweet and savory treats along the oceanfront from the various vendors and on the beach. I half expected to smell the heavy salty ocean air that I had become so accustomed to as a child growing up along the Babylon beaches of Long Island. But the smell was faint, and I settled on the sand, my heavy beach bag in hand. Funny, but I was the only one with a huge bag--my sunscreen, my bottled water, my extra towel, a book to read, my straw hat, some snacks. As I looked around at the carefree Brazilians carrying nothing more than a small towel and change purse, I thought to myself How silly of me. Was this bag really necessary? Everywhere I looked there were beach vendors walking aroung selling 50 cent bottles of sunscreen, 1 real bottles of water, and basically anything else I needed for a day at the beach. From then on, I resolved to bring only the barest of necessities. Besides, it was annoying having to constanly worry about my bag every time I got up!

After settling myself, and securing my wallet discreetly on my person, I timidly ventured off to the water. This would be my first beach experience this year. Paris was cold this summer, and I barely made it back home to Long Island, so I really missed out on the sun and fun. I took off my airy white sun dress, and felt the delicious warmth of the sun against my body. I momentarily became aware of the flaws on my less-than perfect body. But as I looked around, I saw beautiful women--beautiful Black Brazilian women in all shapes and sizes flaunting their glorious ample-sized frames in tiny bikinis. And I saw their men beside them, loving them and adoring their bodies. It was then and there that I realized that I was truly a beautiful being regardless of what the warped magazines and television shows at home dictated. I was a Negra bonita.

Golden grapes on the backstreets

10.22

Acarajé

One of the great advantages of being a brown-skinned sister in Brazil is that everyone thinks you are a native. And so you are given the familial treatment and avoid the gringo tax every time. My lack of Portuguese was taken as shyness (or conceitedness by persistent males), and my skin and hair signaled the locals to let their hair down, so to speak. Which wasn't so bad when I started getting free stuff, clothing discounts, and extra servings of food. Boy, can Brazilians EAT! I learned to exploit my "Bahian" looks quickly. One such occasion came when I was itching to try the acarajé, a local dish that my friend Nici insisted I try out. I came across a family of darker-skinned Bahian's, selling the acarajé dish, and without skipping a beat, they began having an animated conversation with the false Bahian. At the stand sat a fat Bahian woman with short kinky hair covered with a colorful scarf, a wide smile, and a welcoming face, weathered by her years in the Brazilian sun. Next to her was a teenage boy, maybe her grandson, a young woman with a cropped haircut in her late 20's and a man in his early 30's that stood at about 5'7". They all sat, with their roasted chestnut skin, passing the time, and sampling the food the older mama had prepared for the day's sales. They barraged me with questions. I recognized the first comment. Bonita. Beautiful. I had been responding to that all day. Obrigada. Then the comments got more complex, and, overwhelmed, I stared at the family at a complete loss. Sheepishly I whimpered "Não falo português munto bien." But the Brazilian's weren't buying it, and kept speaking to me in Portuguese. I repeated once more that I didn't speak Portuguese, and they asked me where I came from. I replied Estados Unidos. They gasped and stared at me incredulously. A Black American woman is here? On vacation? And she looks just like us? I laughed out loud, and laughed to myself. I have an uncanny way of fitting in with the locals, no matter where I go. When I was in Amsterdam, everyone thought I was Nigerian, in Paris, the American tourists struggled to find the right French words to ask me directions, in Milan, the Italians asked "Nanga Def?" as if I were a Senegalese woman from out of town. And now the Brazilians refused to believe that I was not another Bahian! I cut to the chase and ask the mama to prepare the snack for me. And boy did she prepare a plate! Out from the bubbling dende oil she pulled a golden brown lump of a bread-y textured bean pastry, of which she sliced in half. Steam arose from the hot bun, as she asked Pimente? I nodded as she slathered the spicy hot sauce mixture on the inside of the bun. She then added an okra mixture, followed by chopped tomatoes, peppers, and onions, and crowned with a drool-inducing heap of broiled spiced shrimp. I salivated as I watched her prepare a plate for me. She added a side of rice and beans to complete my feast, and the woman with the short cropped hair pulled up a milk crate so that I could eat beside them. They talked excitedly as they watched me eat, still flabbergasted that I was from Esatdos Unidos and that I spoke no Portuguese. I savored that meal. With every bite my mouth exploded with intense flavors of seafood, salt, spice, and okra. As I bit into the succulent shrimp, with their crispy tasty shells still attached, I reveled in the awesome flavorful juices bursting into my mouth with every bite. A few customers came by, and I noticed that they weren't getting the same plate I was getting. Theirs came in a much smaller, wrapped piece of paper--acarajé to go. I was flattered. With every bite I took, the sweet Black mama would load my plate with two heaping spoonfuls more. Completely stuffed, I pleaded with her that I had had enough. This was no snack. This meal would last me through the night!

A less extensive version of acarajé on a typical shopping day in Bahia

The colors of Brazil

The rustic beauty of Santo Antonio.

Baia de Todos os Santos' beautiful waters

Where's the Party At? Amsterdam

It seemed like every African and Afro-European was in this spot. It was definitely on! If you go to Amsterdam, stand in the Newmarkt square section in the Red Light District and wait for an unmarked cab. When they see a Black person standing there, they will stop for you. Then, ask them to take you to Grand Café, (in English! Yes, they speak English AND Dutch, so chill)and you will be in one of the hottest underground nightspots in town. This isn't in the tour guides, people. And don't bother getting into a regular cab, because they will take you to the popular tourist-y Grand Café that is in all the guidebooks. They play a mixture of the hottest R&B, rap, and African pop and hip hop. You can't help but move. I had a blast!

In Bloem: Amsterdam

I had the pleasure of visiting Bloemenmarkt, in Amsterdam, Holland, where there are thousands of varieties of flowers. the smells, sounds and sights were truly mesmerizing, and I picked up a few flowers for myself...

Bloemenmarkt, the daily flower market in Amsterdam

Doors of Paris

A rustic door in the Marais section of Paris

I felt compelled to start this post because of the many wonderful sights of architecture I've seen around Paris. I will continue to add to this post as I come across more doors. Enjoy:

Tranquility and Divine Beauty in the Mosqée de Paris

My home in Paris

A rounded door on Rue Reaumur

Wood and Iron

Coloures