Lussuria In Italia

Hhhhot.  Steeeamy.  Saaauuucy!
Seductively appealing.  Heart beating. 
So bad for you, yet soo, soo good. 
Mind-blasting. 
The Ultimate Pleasure. 
Holy Rapture. 

PIZZA.
emmmmph!

Can there be anything better, more satiating, more fulfilling. 

My love for pizza knows no bounds.  It is unconditional.  It is pure. 

Me and Pizza.  Pizza and I.  Like star-crossed lovers, never meant to be together and yet we meet again and again.  I left you in NYC, crisp, sliced and greasy and found you anew in Itlay, light, fresh and margherita. 

Day after day after day walking the hot, sizzling streets of Firenze.  Pizza Rustico fed my hunger.  Pizza al Taglio satisfied my voracious appetite. 

Italia proved Kingdom Come to consummate all my usurious craving.  Twas a rented apartment with a quaint balcony over the River Arno.  The atmosphere bathed in sunset, birds and bubbly.  Added was the right amount of spice, or as Americanos call it, red pepper flakes.  And in the end, wholly eaten, it was ecstasy. 

Napoletana, until we meet again, mi inamorato....

EUROPA!

Couldn't do it.  Juuuuust couldn't do it. 

After a nice long breath of fresh air in the United States of America, I itched to fly off again.  Something about the airport and massive jets escorting people to foreign adventures gets me in an excited and can't sit still tizzy.  Not to mention that Houston, TX boasts about 1.5 non-food consumption activities to accomplish. 

So, as one does after quitting one's job and travelling aimlessly for 3 months, I, most wisely, booked another flight across the seas to America's old near and dear (yet sometimes pissed off at us) bestest friend:  the hills, beaches and monuments of Europa Europa. 

Itinerary: 

First three weeks: ITALIA.  Firenze and Lago di Como to be exact.

Last two weeks: Where the wild wind takes flighty souls.  (Eventually turned out to be Geneva and Paris!)

This time, I forgot the whole "I am one, I am bold, I will find myself....or nothing....I need no one".  Hell no.  This time, I frolicked with the gals.  Two gal pals as jobless, giggly and as some debbie downers might claim, out of their minds as yours truly.

Oh Deer

Situ-ee:  Peeps chow down on their beef and pork while stuffed deer gamely eye diners from above.  A raised Hindu blasphemously consuming the product of a cow in a state where brisket is king and killing and mounting your shoot is oh so fun sport.  The universe is an odd beast.

And taxidermy,

what a concept. 

Welcome to Black's Barbeque, sittin in Lockhart, Texas and self-proclaimed the oldest BBQ house owned by the same family. Well, golly gee.

I have never shot and killed a live animal.  I've never come close to a dead animal for that matter.  (I mean one that was not on my plate...animalia skipping in nature as they should be before us barbarics came along).  So it fascinates me to see a whole sport and hobby around trophying once live animals as decorative items in the household or place of business. 

Truly, I can't judge.  I eat meat, savagely so and enjoy every bit of it.  To me, a carnivore, I have yet to grasp the holistic concept that what lies on the plate before me in curries or grilled or sauteed actually pranced gaily at one time before some bloke maimed it in order to pay his/her bills and feast my selfish, hedonistic belly.

So there's no judgment for taxidermists, simply wonder.  Would I skin, stuff and mount an animal if I killed it?  Would I EAT the animal if I shot it myself?  Likely not, as I also love puppy dog eyes on all lively beings in front of me.  But then again, one never knows.  I've always been an eater so starve me for 2 hours (maybe even an hour and 1/2), take me hunting and no doubt I just might eat my sport.   

Soooooo, back to the middle of Texas...a few of us sat at Black's gnawing on the profound concepts of the food chain, vegetarianism, right vs. wrong. 

Simultaneously...and heartily grubbin on the BBQ that sat on the plate before us.

I know.  How evil.

Don't Mess With Texas

Technically, it's an anti-littering campaign for our great republic er..I mean state...but it's a pretty apt statement for the Texas resident.  "Don't be here messin with ma Texas or I'll shoot ya with my concealed handgun."     

just kidding.

I was raised in this proud state known the world over and so Texas is where I return when I need some family lovin, restin and relaxation, gigantic food plates inducin comas or even simply a refresher on my southern accent and country slang. 

Twangy music and mariachi bands.  Big blonde hair sittin next to Mexican cowboys.  Big guys, big buckles, tight jeans and cowboy boots.  No horse-riding to school, well at least not in most places, but enormous Chevy's, Broncos, and Fords to run ya riiyyyyggghht off the road.  Drivin for 8 hours and STILL in the Lone Star State.  My Indian parents and their hee-hawin neighbors.  Home is where the heart is.

As much as I run around, I truly do enjoy coming home.  As every Texan knows, no matter where ya go in the world, there ain't nothin like finger-lickin BBQ, Longhorn football games, 75 cent well-drinks, Tex-Mex, taco stands, river-ridin, 800 degree summers...and the friendliest people on earth.

Oh and the yellow rose: The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You

God Bless America

* Lee Greenwood

No matter where I go in the world, how much I love to travel and the depths of my strong desire to live abroad, I ALWAYS, always feel grateful upon landing in the good ole U.S. of A.  If there ever presents a chance for me to be Queen, it is every time I land at Intercontinental Airport in Houston, TX and take my first steps into the airport and finally onto the street.  There is no feeling like entering the land of the free, the home of the brave.  Miraculously, this even occurs upon returning from my favorite locales of Paris, Sydney and any tropical isles.  America: The assurance of clean public bathrooms, AC on a hot day, heater in the cold, large streets, fancy cars, bright lights, big city.  What you need ya get, what you don't need ya get. 

I posses some angst over our government politics, inequities in fair pay and harsh immigrant treatment, specifically those undocumented.  I scour at the American rat race work ethic and our excessive materialism.  And don't get me started on freakish reality tv, obsessive obesity, and occasional indifference to our elders, families and communities.  I dream of living off the beaches of the Mediterranean or visiting our Southern Latin continent counterpart.  Villa in Honduras, Lunch in Milan, Swimming in Tahiti.  Bring it. 

And yet...and still....I will cede....in terms of hygiene, cleanliness, the utter pristine nature of our towns large and small....I looooove my native lands, the U.S.A. 

There has been, on occasion, upon return from my beloved Indian motherland, a moment in which I envisioned myself prostrate on the Airport floors kissing the shiny linoleum in heaven thanks for the country of my birth. 

"Uhhhh-mhhhe-rica.....aaaammeeerica, god shed his light on theeeeee":  America, The Beautiful - Ray Charles

While I'm at it:

Star Spangled Banner - Whitney Houston

I like you world.  But I loooove you America. 

Me, Myself and I

De La Soul

Provided with innumerable blessings, one of the lucky ones, privileged, I figured it was my duty, my responsibility to do the "right" thing.  Float with the waves and not against.  Ripples of rebellion surfaced occasionally, but mostly I did what was expected.

Then. 

Life finally brought large, consecutive doses of reality.  Divorced.  Father's near death.  Trafficked women, one after the other, repeating their horrid stories of abuse and violence, all under the false banner of love.  Survival.  I was breathless and yet it was exactly what I needed. 

It was time for me to jump.  To let it go.  And to live. 

The separation from the man I was married to provided the first breath of fresh air.  The first feeling of living as I choose and reputation, gossip, opinions be damned.  It was my life and I finally owned it.  But only if I had the guts and courage to step forward.   Sometimes events push you to a ledge.  But it's not the edge of insanity but can be the verge of lucidity.  It is not the step off a cliff but the inertia to your life, the way you want to live it.

My first true step into the unknown, the reliance on guts and intuition instead of plans, formulas - live as all else did - was stepping onto the Qantas jet to Sydney, Australia.  Alone. 

The decision was mine.  The approval hardly any.  The plans none.  It was the start to my decision to attempt to live by the moment, by what simply felt right.  It was time to challenge myself. 

The important ingredient was to do it alone.  To rely only on myself.  To be smart enough to ask for help, of course, along the way but to truly sit, walk, think on my own.  Sometimes it proved truly exhilarating, sometimes I sat there thinking, "what the hell am I doing here, and alone?!", sometimes I got myself into pretty damn hilarious and odd situations and sometimes I found solace, belly-fits of laughter and respite from myself from the many strangers, now friends along the way. 

Travelling alone.  It was an adventure I never thought I'd want to do, much less accomplish.  An experience like no other.  I realized that I am definitely a people person and love the attention.  Yet, it brings a unique empowerment.  I am still blind to many things, confused about many decisions and next steps.  But I hope that each foot forward in any direction comes from an inner strength based on trust, knowledge and faith in my abilities to act in my best interest in a way that only guarantees a wondrous journey. 

Would I travel alone again?  I assume it's like giving birth - you forget the horrendous only to repeat it.  I am truly grateful for the large family of friends and relatives who surround me in my given life.  And yet, I would travel into the unknown again and again.

AUSTRALIA, I Just Can't Quit You.

April 2009 saw the end of this particular short-lived global trek.  But even now, 6 months later, I can't remove the magnetism, excitement, wonder and awe of my time spent running up the east coast of Australia.  Oz, the first destination of my solo adventure. 

I didn't plan on flying half way around the world to a continent I knew little about.  I figured I'd get to Australia at some point in life but not this early.  And sadly, I now feel that I landed on the gorgeous eastern coast a little too late.  Because a close friend travelled back to her home land of Sydney, I decided to follow her and step into that wild oasis. 

As a beach and ocean lover, Australia proved to represent utopia. A culture that is no cares and all surf.  First world destination with third world pride in community, family and just chillin the f out. 

And there is no extreme adventure devoid in Kangaroo heaven.  Surfing, well, of course.  Hiking in the mountains and over sand dunes where your feet burn and fat drops off like sweat.  Done.  Horseback riding in the sea. Done.  Hang gliding off cliffs over the crashing ocean. Done.   Swimming in a lake as clear as diamonds.  Done.  Camping near champagne pools.  Done.  Waking up at dawn on the deck of a sailboat.  Done.  Turning 11 shades darker on the color wheel and fearing that new freckle is sarcoma.  Done.

By bus, I saw Byron Bay, Fraser Island and the Whitsundays.  Didn't quite make it to Ayers Rock in the middle of the country as "luxury camping" seemed like a huge oxymoron.  But next time, I'll make it to the large red rock with spiritual powers as well as Melbourne, Perth and Darwin.  A camel ride on the beach is in store as well. 


Needless to say, or if you're still confused about my feelings for this country continent, I personally think Australia represents the bomb diggity.  If you are under the ripe young age of 30, Oz allows you to work and travel within its borders for several months.  If the land of Oz was not so ageist, you would only see and feel my Tazmanian dust.  No doubt I'd be fanning myself on the beaches of Bondi and Byron for months.                                                                                                                                                                             

Me and My Pony

Hang gliding

                                                                  

Baga...Not Naga...Beach

"Naga" means naked in some of the 1,000 dialects in India.

As far as I know, Indians hardly usurp the adjective "naga" given that doing anything without clothes is blasphemous, heinous...scandalous.  For example, even bathing is sometimes accomplished without going naga with women in full saris cleansing themselves in local rivers and bodies of water.

Therefore, a fascinating and perplexing site is seen in the Southwestern state of Goa.  A clothing conundrum really.

Baga Beach is an Indian hot spot and fabulous tourist destination in this tiny state of Goa.  Foreigners from all over the world alight on this town and bring their many habits...and quirks.  One being, going naga on the beaches of this very conservative coastal country.

"hya allah!"


Watching the spectacle of European women in their 50s, 60s and 70s saunter along the beach topless in only their skivvies (aka: bee-keeni bottoms) while their South Asian counterparts wear every piece of clothing they own makes you wonder, "what truly strange beach-fellows".  Indians, men and women alike, soaked and played in the ocean fully dressed in jeans, t-shirts, dresses and/or salwar kameezes, which include full pants AND a dress ALONG with a fully-bodied scarf or dupata.  Not ONE Indian was in a swim suit, bathing costume, swim cozi...and don't even think the word bikini.

It's just too funny to me. In my Indian-American household I was forbidden to wear tube tops, spaghetti straps much less sleeve-less. And here in my native lands, the mother of all things conservative, there were tourists confidently romping around on the beach, for all to see, with no shirt on and barely any underwear.

I mean I'm no fan of wearing my entire wardrobe into the ocean, but what happened to when in rome...

I'm all for feminist empowerment...freedom!...but a little respect for the country one frolics through wouldn't prove too large an impediment to the declaration of "hear me roar". And at least it would prevent many a local and witnessing traveler to exclaim, "PLEASE NO MORE!"

Stay naga in the parks of Munich, the beaches off France, the streets of Denmark.  But please, please, keep yo gals modest while in the Hindustan.

I won't go as far as demanding the Burkini while in India but at least a bathing suit would suffice.

Welcome and Come Again!

So YOU Think YOU Can Dance

What to do when in Kerala?

Apparently, Kathakali.

I've seen many a grand thing while travelling.  Asia always brings out the best and brightest.  But Kathakali took it to a new level, a new dimension really.

Kathakali is a highly stylized Hindu classical dance-drama originating in Kerala.  (paraphrased from Wiki, no less).  But that's the PC version.  What I saw was wowzers.  From the front seat of the 50 chair Periyard Theater in Munar (basically I was on the stage), I witnessed facial expression and bug eyed movement at its speech-defying finest.  It is a wonder that pupils can enlarge and contour at such emotion-filled aerobic agitation and in rapid fire in 360 degree directions to the beat of live, loud percussion. 

Never one to be classy or fully appreciate the intricate nuances and beautiful arrangements of various art forms, at some point during the production, I of course, began to giggle. 

But don't chastise me,
as laughter is the best medicine.
Assuming your ailment is immaturity. 
but I digress.....

Seriously, Kathakali is not to be missed when in Kerala.  The recreation of epic Hindu stories such as the Ramayana or Mahabharata come to life with characters in full vibrant costumes and live music comprised of tablas, cymbals and traditional song.  At this particular theater, by arriving early, you can witness the dancers, who are all male, being dressed in their complicated and decorous outfits by their assistants and applying fantastic makeup.  For all my youthful behavior, I did come to the wise conclusion that this green face paint is awesome.

Overall, I didn't really fully comprehend the intricate emotional sequence that I was privy to audience, but basically....there was a man, there was a woman, and there was anger.  Seems pretty clear to me - a scenario that plays out in full color in the daily lives of peeps the world over.
Next time I have my own Kathakali performance I might try some face paint and live drum beat.  A little foreign language singing in the background might not hurt either.   but again, I digress.....

If this wasn't enough, check out this live video from youtube: 
Kathakali!

Bangaluroooo

aaaahhh the life of the Expat.  and what a life it is.     

My American born cousins decided to up and leave with their two kiddos and move to the large economic metropolis of Bangalore in the state of Karnataka.  Funny how our parents, and almost the entire state of Gujarat (thus the influx of Patels in the U.S. of A), ran, sprinted, fled their native homes in the '60s and '70s for the land of opportunity, moo-la and luxury so that now, the children of these hard-working, wide-eyed Indians head back in mini-flocks to the motherland. Some Indian parents are proud, others crunch their eyebrows in deep perplexion exclaiming, "VHAT tha hell?"    irony. 

Skipping along on my adventure, I decided to visit my brethren and live the good life, if not for at least a few days.  After hostels, bugs and heat, this was the promise land.  Swimming pool, cool breezy ambient outdoor weather, infinite indoor AC, American Oreos, Cheetos and Hershey's syrup.  Yippee kay yay!

Typically, South Indians nosh on humongous plain or masala Dhoshas, vegetable-filled pancake Uttapams and UFO shaped Idlis.  (Most people drool at the mere mention of these succulent dishes but sadly I'm not a big fan of cuisine from the South - so, you'll have to trust the word of the masses on this one, in this rare instance not follow my lead and dip your fingers rabidly into these delicacies).

anyhoooo, apparently the gods were not on my side as sitting in my bungalow, sipping chai as one does,  chanting "theh's no problem yaar", is not my permanent life.  only a mere pass through. 

                                                                                
No doubt, though, that on my way out I innumerably begged my cousins to adopt me.  Alas, I'm still waitin for the call.  Must be the paperwork backed up.  Must be. 

                                                            Lil Maharaja

God's Own Country

Who thought it would be a great idea to put people...on a boat...overnight?  WHO?

I did this not once, but twice. 
Sailboat (Australia).  Houseboat (India).

Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice, shame on ME.

Kerala is known for its lush tropical backwaters, aka, a network of lakes, canals, estuaries and deltas of 45 rivers that combine and drain into the Arabian Sea.  So the brilliant idea was to join three senior citizens for an overnight ride through this self-supporting aquatic ecosystem in the Indian springtime.  No doubt, it was gorgeous.  Peacefully gliding along vibrant verde rice paddy fields and rows and rows of coconut trees.  The wind flowing through my hair like a bollywood movie, the full course South Indian meals, rice, rice and rice, lukewarm beers, playing cards and novel reading, all without a care in the world.  The three-sided view flourished with vegetation, locals bathing in the waterside, clothes-line laundry, lime green houses and other houseboats floating by with unique architecture, honeymooners, families, and Indians waving at each other in communal harmony. 

All sounds perfect. 
Twas perfect. 

Until it was time to use the twa-let.  Or eat in the moonlight with one gazillion gnats and flies.  It seemed utopia, almost, but then again it's India.  You love it, you love it all, but there's always that one piece astray, one hair sticking straight up, one pant leg too high, one stain, one odor ghastly off, one foot in something or somebody else's piece of shiznit. 

So, moral of the story. I do recommend the houseboat. But I do not recommend attempting to sleep on it or stay overnight. Particularly, if you strongly believe that sanity is a beautiful thing.    

Addendum: Unless you find yourself on a luxury boat with J Lo or the Queen of England, do not also spend the night on a sailboat off the coast of OZ as the lack of bathing water along with significantly aromatic toilets pushes one to desperately seek to leap off the boat into deep waters without the skills to swim.

No less, as a Pisces and an optimist, floating along waters, with a few precautions taken, equals moments heavenly.

I Love My India

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-FqxvpY8jYU&feature=related


Yep.  I love my India.  Heat in December.  Camels.  Monkeys.  Elephants, in streets big or small.  Gods, only thousands.  Bargaining.  Hole in the ground: Is that the loo?!  Saris.  Colors of the Rainbow: Peacock. Mango. Rani.  Cows, cows, cows.  Indescribably suspicious yet delicious street food.  Forever Bombay.  Stank and all.

Horn Okay Please.

I first landed on the motherland at 15.
And it wadn't no bollywood movie. 

Since then I've been several times: Gujarat (word to my people).  Rajasthan.  Shimla.  Dharamshala.  New Delhi and what the Agra.  This time around, I was going down.  Down, down, down, down, down.*


KERALA.

South India, also named Dravida in the national anthem, encompasses the states of Kerala, Karnataka, Tamil Nadu, and Andhra Pradesh.  South India boasts a movie industry even bigger than Bollywood and I personally think the greatest number of moochies in the whole world. 

Not to mention the fun choice of colors for the home.

The wonder that is India requires several mind-boggling posts.

All with love of course.       

* http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M_8V_RyijlI&NR=1

BANGKOK.

Capital of Thailand and what the city it is. 

I arrived in March when the daily weather forecast was sweltering.  Not a breeze in sight and humidity reigned without any respite.  No fan of having my thighs stick together, alas Bangkok still managed to nudge its way to my good side.  The boat rides up (or is it down) the Chao Praya River with views of Wat Arun on one side and fancy hotels on the other.  Slick train rides past the ritziest shopping center in Southeast Asia, the Siam Paragon.  Hours through the rows and rows of Chatuchak Market buying all kinds of inexpensive yet fabulous thingamajiggies.  I liked Bangkok. 

MUST SEES:  Grand Palace with its amazing golden and jeweled exteriors, Wat Pho and the HUGE Reclining Buddha, Wat Arun to climb the high-high temple, Jim Thompson's House, and the Emerald Buddha, which sadly I forgot I saw....so many Buddhas in so little time....And speaking of palaces, well at least for some folks, I did venture into a few red light districts.  Thanks Vikas.  When in Thailand....

MUST EAT:    In Chinatown, grab a seat, stool, whatever and sat yourself down at one of the many "sidewalk" restaurants.  Basically, a few card tables thrown out with plastic stools and waiters bringing out tons of Thai delicacies from God knows where, somewhere across the street and through the woods.  Oh, and cars almost sittin in your lap as they drive by.  Most fun though was witnessing my good buddy Vikas get ass-swiped by a baby elephant as it was walking by and caught in traffic.  Noodle in one hand, elephant boo-tay as head gear.  And let's not forget the waiter who graciously escorts you to the lavatories through chock-a-block traffic, across the street, through some kitchen full of male chefs to a suspicious inside hole in the wall and waits for you so that he can then escort you like a frogger game back to your stool next to the baby elephant.  Service with a smile. 

Piece of Advice though:  Be wary of the seemingly kind taxi drivers/posers who convincingly tell you that the site you are attempting to locate is closed for the day for some holiday, royal activity, because the sun ain't shining...They are in fact attempting to scam you into a far drive to another location so they can get taxi fare - this exchange can easily produce quite a menacing facial expression and/or incoherent muttering under your breath given that you are lost, sweating profusely and almost duped.  Alas, the land of all smiles sometimes produces a slight frown.