"NO NUTS ON MY BUNS"

Bah Humbug

2012-03-04T13:00:00.002-06:00

Ah, what the hell. It's my party and I can cry if I want to.

Houston, I give up.

Hola Colombia!

Sentenced

2011-12-10T09:45:00.001-06:00

Again. And again.

Like tripping into quicksand, slowly suffocating with no way out. Spinning into a swirling eddy, limbs failing against the whirlpool turbulence. Joyously swimming out to sea on a warm summer night to forcibly return by the high tide of the moon. It is an arid, acrid, dessert with no oasis in sight. It is the unwelcome Force. The Vortex.

Like a powerful magnet, I am repeatedly yanked back. I sob, I scream, I throw an adult temper tantrum. And yet, I remain. I am continuously shot, captured and dragged back from the forests of freedom to this penitentiary, devoid of hope, removing souls.

I am sucked back to the emotional decay and stifling black hole .... of Houston.

Finally, I give up. I succumb. Exhausted, I will flow with this placid current in the Bayou. I accept this challenge, begrudgingly and with full pout. I may whine the entire float to salvation, this other utopia, but I will seek lemonade with my lemons in the meantime.

There must be something to do here....something.

Anyone?

Sunlight On Your Face

2011-11-28T21:41:00.012-06:00

If you've ever possessed the thrilling opportunity to live in The City, you recognize your heart palpitations of sheer excitement in flying in high above the skyscrapers or walking low along the streets among their foundations.

Sometimes you're in bliss, sometimes you're in rage. But overall, you are madly, blindly, utterly in love.

You fantasize of mercilessly razing through deep, curbside crowds, yet contain your sidewalk rage because you truly adore and thrive in this motley crew of 8 million people.

Your bedtime lullabies soothe with the comforting sounds of sirens and horns and blasphemy reigns by the mere suggestion you close your blinds, ever, even while modestly dressed in your birthday suit.

You pay $7 for sliced cheese and bicep curl all your $2 million groceries home.

You trudge up 5! flights of stairs to your current palace of 420 square foot dreams, dread like the plague your search for a new apartment and hurl the moment you hear the price tag for this fresh, new home of nightmares.

You frolic among the shimmering lights and merry sounds of the festive holidays with their chestnut aromas. Then, your joyous memories freeze maddeningly when you can't feel your nose, your face burns and tears well up in the early winter frost.

You efficiently and structurally navigate by the grid system and after years manipulating streets and aves you still, continuously, walk dazed and confused among the diagonals of the West Village.

You refuse to accept the kindness of disease-ridden subway handles, then, unceremoniously trip, roll and land into the shocked and unsuspecting lap of your fellow New Yorker. And now you can't get up.

You never cease to be mesmerized by the unbelievable piece and serenity among the trees, breeze and even horse crap in Central Park. What a genius idea.

You sometimes want to push the old lady who somehow had the balls to cut you in line and then scream at you.

You grope the sans seatbelt leather cushion of your screeching cab infused with masala curry potpourri fearing that you are going to die by swerve and then, realize...happily, you are out of the rain, watching live with kelly updates and can pay by credit.

You only asked for a reservation for two, yet you sit thigh to thigh to each person next to you. Yes, all six of you prior strangers still refuse to chat with one another yet you now know the other's most private, intimate, salaciously funny life stories.

You pay district tax?! And no, that's not a cute neighborhood squirrel but a fat, ole, nasty rat. The 21st century version of danger lurking in the night streets.

You spend waaay too much money, you party obscenely and you work like a dog.

You take your big dreams to this gargantuan city and you savor every teeny-weeny leap towards success.

You love The City, where the streets all have a name. But you're still building up love. It's all you can do.

His Royal Kebabness

2011-11-13T14:19:00.005-06:00

Brooklyn...Queens?....Staten Island?!

No nose-up-in-the air Manhattanite dares step off the isle of trend for the wild, mysterious regions of the boroughs north, east and, god forbid, south.

Over the ground trains. Under the tracks streets. Urbanized suburbs!
Ferries coup'ed by untamed instincts of unruly tourists. Que horrorers, only ventured to by wily explorers and hardened adventurers!

Alas, I say, cease your elitist ways. Put down your Pastis french fry, your Balthazar baguette and Nobu straight from the sea fish. Stop!, with the purple. Emperors of the Big Apple, I besiege you, make one exception, clamor aboard the N train and walk your royal pampered aaa...feet to Astoria. There, you find your kin, your brethren, your fellow ruler by divinity: The King of Queens, His Royal Highness, Fares "Freddy" Zeideia. The King of Falafel.

At 30th and Broadway in Queens NY, you may feel in another world, you may gaze agog at the richness around you. Yet, drop your worries of the unknown, for the full aroma of The King's falafels will adequately serve to guide you directly to his enthralling market.

Falafel, Shawarma, Kebab! Veggie or carni, pita or rice, The King delivers to your palate's suffice. Make friends with the Zeideia family and you create a pact of peace for life. A treaty of food that expands excitement, love and happiness to those from all boroughs near and far.

Eventually, return to your native land, your West and East Villages, your buildings to the sky, your central park of champions, for Manhanttanites never conquer or invade. But, certainly, bring back the riches of the land you have discovered, the flavors of the King, the world of Falafel.

Fares Freddy Zeideia

Glory to the Divine

2011-11-02T11:25:00.000-05:00

"Ohhhhh lord, where art thou?"

Hell knows I've uttered that biblical...shakespearean...erk?...that phrase in some odd, quirky and sometimes tragic circumstances.

And ain't religion a funny thing. We live among the devout, the spiritual, agnos and the atheists. Hindu, Buddhist, Christian, Muslim....Sufi, Sikh, Shinto, Baha'i...Oh, and the Scientologists, "Where IS my spaceship?!"

Whether you believe or not, all possess faith in the grandeur and beauty of deific, wholly and energetic global traditions, practices and monuments created in the name of some glorious divine. So you scream that religion satisfies only the truly fanatic or you pontificate that non-believers ride the fast train to the inferno - One tenet we can all find peace in rests in the visual allure manifested in the decor and drama created by this mysticism.

After a weekend of hedonism in the Big Apple, lay your tired feet at the house of the St. John. If the tale is true, the Divine invites and accepts all.

I LOVE PARIS IN THE SPRINGTIME…OR ANYTIME

2011-02-19T10:13:00.000-06:00

Even as an experienced traveler, Paris remains my first love.
For me, the city of lights bubbles and explodes like champagne and fireworks.

Paris, how much do I love thee…let me count the ways.

1. Le Tour Eiffel
But of course. Iconic. Expected. But never disappoints. Any which way you see it, the infamous entrance to the 1889 World Fair excites and satisfies many a fan who catches a glimpse or stares in awe. Whatever your vantage point, whether from slow river boats, lazily in surrounding grassy knolls, beneath the tallest Parisian tower itself, through openings three stories high, or, at best, from across at the Trocadéro, the iron lattice phe-nom somehow elicits a sense of comfort and peace in a city that impresses every time. Soooo, the lady at the ticket counter yells at you rudely, the restroom shuts down with no alternate in sight and lines are three hours long...the Eiffel Tower remains, still, très, très magnifique.

2. Moulin Rouge
Wowzers. What in the hell is the Moulin Rouge?! Fantastic. Neon lights, flashy costumes, feathers, sequins, wild music and craziness. Walking into the 19th century red velvet, candlelit, large yet cozy cabaret theater proves magical. Originally housing courtesans, this slightly questionable establishment soon became the hotspot for fashionable French society and is now well-received and well-respected by most. Although still a bit risqué and provocative, depending on whether you excite, find normal or panic at the appearance of many topless women, the Moulin Rouge, through music, dance, musicians and comedians, delivers significantly more than expected. One ticket price, one included bottle of champagne. By all means G-rated and yet, still, a happy ending.

3. Basilique du Sacré Coeur
It may be out of your way to Montmartre but the white stone church high on the hill coupled with awesome panoramic views of the city of love provide ample reason to trek up to the church of the sacred heart. Work off your lunch of French delicacies by choosing to climb your way to the virginal alter rather than tramming it up by street car. Celebrate your effort with a long, lazy afternoon détente on the front steps listening to artists sing, activists pontificate or acrobats and entertainers liven up the Parisian backdrop. Post spiritual cleanse, leisurely stroll the quaint boulevards de Montmartre and thank God for the surrounding trendy boutiques and cute restaurants.

4. Jardin Louxemberg
Aaahhhh, trifling days in the French breeze. Maybe a bit lazy, but I love a good lay in the park. Have I ever carved out the time in my hectic American schedule? No. But, during any stroll in this green esplanade , it seems as though Europeans excel at this wondrous pastime. The Jardin Louxemberg provides ample room to cozy on up to your sweetness, platonically sit with a friend or quietly rest solo with a good book, an iPod or some munchies. Toss your watch in the flower bed and hang casually amongst the tall trees, flowers and summer clouds for utter rest and relaxation. The Jardin Louxemberg is ideal as it seems less touristy, more local and surrounded by perfect ambiance: a castle with statues no less. Its the atmosphere plus the encouraging Parisians who entice you to play hooky from whatever it is you were doing and just play in the grass.

5. Crepes and Cream
Ooooh la, la, how the French perfect their desserts. Nothing fancy, nothing elegant. Simply crepes and ice cream on the streets. Oh, but how rich it is. My preference leans towards a double scoop of caramel and dark chocolate ice cold cream coupled with a hot, fresh nutella crepe. Grab that park bench a la # 4 above and let your tongue savor all that delicious french sucre. Sooo, you might invite a belly ache post consumption but how scrumptious it was in the moment. C'est la vie.

6. Vélib' Bikes
Well, the idea is grand IF you can figure out how to actually rent one. All over Paris, this progressive city hosts approximately 20,000 FREE, public bicycles waiting to be picked up at 1,639 automated rental stations. [And we query why French women are so thin? Hmmm.] As a casual adventurer myself, the idea of a riding along the streets of the city, catching the sites and details of Parisian life, as I pleased and with efficient speed, seemed divine. YET, aaa-parently, credit cards [needed as collateral] require a very special EMV chip [which American cards do not possess] in order to access these 1,000s of Vélib' stations from which others so gaily rent bikes and fly by on. The rental stations do, however, take American Express cards. So...I guess..don't leave home without it. If you can manage to rent one of the quaint '50s styled grey two-wheelers, kudos to you and bon voyage as you traverse this vibrant metropolis cheap, fit and hip.

7. Live Music on the Seine
On every walk along the famous river Seine, especially around dusk, musicians serenade your stroll as if in a Hollywood movie. Guitars, saxophones, live singers...whatever is your fancy some one is playing it on the Seine. To add to the milieu, cultured French and tourists alike sit along the banks engulfing the musicians to offer support and encouragement and to take out the time to enjoy the moment. Sand, fit into playboxes for adults, edge parts of the Seine river bank sometime providing a beach like celebratory atmosphere enhanced by the cigarettes and spirits. Free concerts on the french riverside - what a wonderful life.

8. European Cafes
Call me romantic, naive or delirious but I always envision every European languidly sitting hour upon hour in street side cafes sipping cafe, nibbling on baguettes and cheese without a care in the world. So, do as they do...or as I fantasize. Put up your feet and eat and drink until you are belly-filled and hopefully high. Whether its truly Parisian or not is actually quite irrelevant...chit chat aimlessly, read your magazine and newspaper, or intellectually ponder your relationship with the city. Whatever you do, just sit in the sun, for 3 or 9 hours, without a care in the world.

9. The Louvre
Tried and true, it never fails. The one and only. Everyone knows it, everyone's heard about it: La Joconde aka the Mona Lisa. So, she ends up being smaller, less attractive and hard to see once you actually meet her. But the Louvre in all its grandeur awes and inspires even the most art ignoramus. There proves much beauty and past time in the infamous triangle glass, the exquisite Venus de Milo, the expansive and detailed murals, as well as in the aches and pains from navigating the halls and halls...and halls. Learn a little something, appreciate art and infuse yourself in the history lesson that is the Louvre. The least you can do is brag that you arrived at one of the most famous museums in the world.

10. Notre Dame
The last item to make this list was a toss up between a hallowed church and well...french men. Figuring that hot, European bucks do not excite everyone, I played a numbers game and decided on a more neutral and compromising caboose to this tourist train in order to appeal to the masses...albeit and noted that religion may also not necessarily be every one's cup of tea, particularly when cited TWICE in one blog. But. No true tourist to Paris should avoid the Gothic architecture and stained glass glory of "Our Lady of Paris" cathedral on the quaint Île de la Cité. As it's a working church and maintains a strict rule to remain silent, there is no choice but to enter this divine home to reflect and pray. Never one to claim seriousness as a virtue, I beg the lords to understand that the Hunchback is really not my type and thank them for all the men outdoors.

For me, Paris always, is love.

We Are The World, We Are The Children

2010-12-11T20:33:00.004-06:00

Imagine that. A world where we all happily mix and mingle among each other. Not simply tolerating ourselves but sincerely enjoying our varied differences, cultures, foods, traditions and smells. Of course, this merry scene does play out in many moments and marked places around the globe. As we've all experienced, most of us, our neighbors, and strangers do invite one and all in a spirit of generosity, kindness and friendship. However, times and situations present themselves where our brethren stoop to actions less than human, against each other, requiring a meeting of the minds, of the world, to find solutions.

So, like a kid in a candy store, this geek, yours truly, giggles, heart-stops and skips gaily at, of all places, the United Nations. The dual headquarters in New York City and Geneva make me a twitter with bliss and possibility. Reality boldly teaches that the world is not peaceful, xenophobia lives strong and some places are simply too dangerous to alight upon. Yet, for me, the United Nations, represents the movement that believes that differences can find common ground and that we truly do seek a world that we can all enjoy equally.

For an international traveler, it is only fitting that I, along with my fellow adventurers and curiosity seekers, believe in the ability to see natural and man-made wonders, eat insane cuisine and hear vibrant and varied music all across the globe.

So, on our fab trip to Europe, a stop in Geneva required a paid tour and one hour lecture at the very Kum Ba Ya edifice, where the world meets and has a conversation.

As a human rights attorney, I've spoken at the UN on human trafficking and, as a career goal, hope to enter the headquarters in Geneva as an invited guest. For now, like a naive school girl and professed nerd, I simply toured with exalted energy and internal hope and faith that the people who negotiate, delegate and compromise within these great rooms do so with a sincere effort to make our world positively interconnected.

For a lover of travel, the idea of a united world is taken for granted, obvious, easy and expected. As if anything else could or should be the norm. How else are we to be born one place and see all others, to experience culture, nature, people and lifestyles that are different from ours.

Maybe travelers are the true ambassadors of the globe. Maybe those who cross borders, intermingle and make friends in countries not their own inherently and without pomp and circumstance serve as the true diplomats. Maybe travelers are the unsung world of the international foreign service. I like the sound of that and wear my smile for all persons as my badge.

Even "No Nuts..." Is A Travelling Fool

2010-09-24T09:20:00.002-05:00

Check us out romanticising on Paris on travelwithamate.com

I Love Paris In the Springtime...Or ANYTIME
http://www.travelwithamate.com/10-things-to-do-in-paris-france

Highly Amusing

2010-09-12T12:51:00.009-05:00

Ooooooooo, a carnival at my age. How much fun it can be.

A friend and I trained it to Geneva on a whim...as one spontaneously does when one attempts to be fabulous. With no real plan or agenda, we found ourselves mesmerized by the out of the blue, ride-ridden carnival on the Rhone River banks of this international and supposedly high-brow city. Now, when I think Geneva, I think Arabic fun fair. Doesn't everyone? In our attempts to be très chic we ended up quite cultured...and in a great way.

Walking towards the water on a dusk evening upon first arriving, we curiously strode towards the heart-thumping rhythms of dance-inducing drum beats, tinging ouds and passionate vocals - aka, alluring and exciting music of the Middle East. Then...eventually...we saw it: the spaceship-like, neon contraption that was inevitably the thrilling, breathless, high above the city "Chair-O-Planes" that had to be ridden.

All our euro cash later, we flew atop the city and Geneva became a child-like, Swiss Chuck E. Cheese of my dreams and not the shopping, chocolate mecca I thought it to be.

So what to do on the 2nd day...why, tackle the spinning ferocity of the "Tagada", a no seat belt, no restraint, up and down hydraulic adventure. Oh man. With the hypnotic music thumping like a nightclub, we sat down, grabbed the back handlebars and latched on for dear life as this maniac round bowl of a ride whirled like an out of control washing machine. I laughed, I screamed and, I'm sure, stopped breathing at some point. Head Spin, Heart-Pumping. Eyes Wide and Stomach Lurching. Dizzying, Tizzying. And at the end I caught my breath in pure exhilaration. So what did we do. We rode it again...and again.

I don't know if this carnival is a permanent fixture in the city or present only temporarily for our impulsive pleasure. Therefore, I can't recommend it for your structured itinerary. But hopefully you'll be able to toss your plans and find yourself giddy with cotton candy and sugared apples at the world's greatest fair.

Officer...I've Been Robbed! Switzerland

2010-07-25T16:05:00.002-05:00

I had never been robbed. Never been violated so brazenly, so openly. Previously, I frolicked in the streets of the world, innocently eying and buying many trinket, toys and treats.

Until, that is...my sweet reverie was slashed and I traversed the streets of...dun, dUN, DUUUUN...Switzerland.

Was it late at night? On a suspicious, dark street corner? Seedy part of town? Scary?!

No. Nope. None of the above.

It was in broad daylight. On a soft afternoon....and first, at the McDonald's.

It was a hot afternoon. Three girls, never ones to prioritize fast food and yet craving something fast, cheap and known. All enter the lit, crowded Mickey D's and unassumingly, naively begin ordering: 1 chicken sandwich meal, 1 veggie burger and...1 small fries. And then it happened, out of nowhere, quick as lighting, without a moment to grasp reality and stop the madness. The Swiss stole from us! Just took our $35.00 [$35!!] U.S. dollars!!

If you are a masochist and seeking the rush of a victim of monetary violence, Switzerland is your destination of choice.

No need to grab a hold tight of your purse. Or put your money in the hotel safe. No need to carry your valuables in a weird travel pouch that hangs from your neck and requires you to oddly and perversely reach into and under your blouse to procure a Euro. No, the vendors of this neutral sovereign state, as friendly as they are, just rob you point blank, unassumingly and straight to your face. They take your money with concealed force and with the sweetest smile. As if it's normal. No mask, no gun. Neither threats nor intimidation. So smooth and nonchalant was this incessant hold up that I didn't even realize I was in danger. Just so simple, as if it was no big deal:

Me: "I'd like to buy a chocolate". The Vendor: "Sure Madame, no problem...that will be $342 euros".
or,
Me: "I'd like that newspaper". The Vendor: "Suuuure Madame, but of course...that will be $829 euros".

If only Switzerland was a charity I'd be more philanthropic than Mother Theresa. Or more boisterously, like the Sultan of Bahrain throwing my money carelessly in the air showering the streets with my 1 Euro bills

Even our paddle boat was branded with the steering wheel of high-society BMW (however, still energized by the [wo]man-power of yours truly and my very impressed friend).

As gorgeous as Switzerland is, no doubt its beauty is awe-inspiring and picture book perfect, never, ever judge this book by its cover. Cuz the Swiss paperback might just steal all your money leaving you with a a belly-full of trans fat fast food and not even a penny or pence to buy yo-self some acid-reflux cum anxiety-reducin meds.

In Switzerland, beware.
Open your wallet at your own serious financial risk...or even ruin.

Oooops...I Did It Again

2010-07-07T17:44:00.003-05:00

Damn those sailboats.

What is it about the sleek curves, shiny handles, chiseled exterior, buffed hard wood floors, and full-bodied hull - all crashing against fiery waves. Gets me every time. Every. Time!

But nope, this girl has learned her lesson. Don't let them smooth sailboats take me for a ride. Uh-uhh. This time I know better. This time no sleepovers, no one night stands. After a few hours sailing the lake seas, I was respectfully going home, thank you very much. No matter how fun, how giddy, how enticing that ride would be, before embarking on that shiny vessel, I did the equivalent of not shaving my legs and promising, resolutely devoting myself, to come ashore with chastity belt intact and no way in hell was I sleeping with that boat.

3 night stay on the sailor in the Whitsundays, Australia - nearly lost my damn mind.
Overnight on the houseboat in Kerala, India - jesus, twas near death.
Lake Cuomo, Italy - No way in hell was I rolling the dice.

Like a bad boyfriend that you just can't say no to, don't want to say no to. Never really right for ya, a thorn in your side, annoying and frustrating. The one you do more for than he does for you. Yet, soo charming, attractive and phantasmal that the tear-jerking memories erase themselves and once again you plunge into the depths of lust for someone...something...unreal.

Sailing. I just can't quit you.

BUT. The goal, the mission really, is that you learn from your mistakes. You manage your expectations and swallow a large dose of reality. And as one does, so did I. Lake Cuomo sailing I went. I would go on this exhilarating ride. I would enjoy the wind in my hair, tan on my back, undulating vibrations in my soul with my hands firmly on the wheel. No snoozing in the overnight berths, boat shoes securely kept on, hired private boat, pristine lavatories, even keel, champagne and strawberries - all in all, pure ecstasy.

Empowerment is a beautiful thang. Sailboat abstinence...puh-leeease. Never gonna happen. So instead, a middle ground. Fully educated, precautions taken, risks assessed and decision made. A little sail boating does a body good, relieves stress and well sometimes can be quite orgasmic. As long as I remember: be a good girl and at the end of the day say your goodbyes, blow your kisses and walk satisfyingly home.

Ole Geezers

2010-06-29T18:23:00.001-05:00

I mean...respected elders. Of course.

Oh the quirks..errr...i mean, wisdom, of old people. Snail strolls, salon parlor games, 9:00 pm bedtimes and gas. Cute, silly but maybe not so cuddly. Who knew I wanted to vay-cay with Pa-Pa's and Ne-na's. I certainly didn't.

All the picture books, travel brochures, rumors and George Clooney NEVER reported that beatific Lake Cuomo, Italy, housed an ant farm of the elderly. Everywhere. In all the lakeside towns, shops, cafe and bars. The aged. The mature. The pushing 100+ crowd. Like swarms. And just as wasp nests discourage all outsiders, so have the wise sages of Lake Cuomo dissipated nearly all the young bucks still playing in their 20s and 30s. No, Ibiza this isn't. No Rio nor Miami Beach. THIS tiny enclave surrounding a very bellissimo, never to disappoint, lago in northern Italy is THE Florida of Europe - retirement playground for those seeking a too soon word with God.

Hotel Britannia, in the lakeside town of Cadenabbia, proved the epicenter for those not only over the hill but through the woods and beyond...and simultaneously our lustrous lodging for a few days. Alas, old people or not, the Britannia excelled our expectations by enabling us to nest in a gargantuan, castle-like room fit for princesses. Sky-high ceilings, heavenly-like beds, enough red velvet to challenge Versailles and floor to ceiling windowed doors that opened out into a private balcony with views of utopia forced us to forget our creaky yet enthusiastic neighbors. Free proseco'd happy hour at 5:00 only enhanced our retirement home ambay-ance.

So we didn't nightclub it out, shop at trendy boutiques or parlay with any Italian playboys. Just us gals, another hike, a little silk scarf shopping, and a virgin taste of cappuccino.

Sometimes, without permission, a tiny breather is forced upon you...to ponder that you are in fact still breathing...and a mini-early retirement becomes quite welcome indeed. When this respite manifests itself in luxurious Lake Cuomo, shame on me to rag on the aged and elderly while fruity drinks, a soft breeze, the blue water and shaded mountain side surround me.

A geezerly burp to waken me occasionally? Who's to complain.

The one sighting and glimmer of youth. So young, so fresh, so baaaby.

Chinky Terry

2010-05-31T20:45:00.004-05:00

Apparently,

"Chinky Terry", it's not.

"Cheen-ka-wha Te-Ra", it is.

Cinque Terre, The Italian Riviera.

At the wee age of 22, after college in '99, a friend and I travelled to a quaint, magnificent, if not slightly sleepy, group of five villages off the north west coast of Italy. In the Summer of 2009, a much older, wiser, hopefully more beautifully-aged if less fit me, and two equally blessedly well ladies, tracked it back to this now more boisterously fab locale.

If I ever had visions of the picture perfect European summer, with beaches, tans, gelato cones, cute boys and lazy summers, its interpretation in reality is Cinque Terre. Five gorgeous villages sit on the luscious and rugged mountainside with shopping, lunch and a bathe in the sea awaiting your arrival.

However, "arrival" to Cinque Terre is not as modern as our current times. Trains, boats and/or walking paths provide the only methods of approach as cars cannot reach the villages from the outside. But what fun limited transportation options bestow. We ladies chose to take the train in from La Spezia to the first town of Riomaggiore and hike the steep walking paths from town to town. The first stroll, lovingly nicknamed "Via Dell'Amore", proves wondrous as the breeze high up in the hills compliments the impressive overlooks to the sea.

But beware the boot camp, height phobic, nightmarish mountain climb from Vernazza to Monterosso. Oh, a mere 2.5! hours later from the start you feel like an Olympian after delicately navigating narrow, narrow paths, confronting stairs of nature that climb to the heavens, trekking through strangely comforting olive orchards and vineyards to eventually carry abundant cliff-hanger moments courtesy of this "hike" for superheroes.

The few respites on this so-called "trail" seem almost like stupendous mirages: Mr. Limonata Man appears out of nowhere among the jungle-like greenery slapping at your forehead to provide ice-cold fresh lemonade for a truly hallelujah moment. That combined with the occasional awe-inspiring views that can only be seen from the edge of cliffs provide a truly memorable physical adventure.

Upon arrival at either town depending on which way you started you simply thank the lords you are still alive. And yet, as you step foot on solid, cement ground once again, a smile forms ear to ear as you realize that the beaches and sea lazily welcome you back and soak you in like a pat on the back for a trek well done.

Life...

2010-05-13T09:32:00.003-05:00

so..occasionally, sometimes...every once in awhile...this pestering lil thing called LIFE gets in the way.

and so against all desires, wishes and wants a pause is required.

thereby, my little travel food blog that could is on hold for a very short time.

but...no worries and no sorrows. a few days, maybe a couple of weeks, okay at least a month and travel writing by yours truly will resume. hopefully, actual travelling will as well.

Torts? Anyone?!

2010-02-08T22:00:00.001-06:00

Only outside America, far from the reaches of our litigious, sue or be sued society, do you find a world-renowned tourist bastion that screams danger and thereby liability, tort, negligence, personal injury and maybe even wrongful death.

Okay, if not that far-fetched then at least a violation of building codes? Anyone?

Nope, this potential dereliction of a government's duty of care sits not in an anything goes, everything's a risk locale in Asia or even Central or South America. Its' situated in our very own neighborly, apparently legally sound continent of Europe.

Italy. Tuscany. Pisa, to be exact.

The liability evading wonder of the world: the infamous Leaning Tower.

Growing up and repeatedly hearing about this crazy structure that defies gravity and tilts to awesomeness, the Leaning Tower seemed over-hyped and an attraction I never truly cared to see. Yet, what a little uppity I was. And what a fascinating site for my tired lawyerly trained cross-eyes.

Due to a poorly laid foundation in 1173, the marble bell tower began to lean upon construction of the third floor. But Italians gave the finger to quitting and after 100 years of building cessation due to political strife, proceeded to just go on trekking floor after floor, tilt and all. What a lesson in persistence...and it has certainly paid off.

The Leaning Tower has welcomed millions of visitors from around the world to climb its 293 steps to the top, regardless of its most evident, in fact its raison d'etre, characteristic. People pay to climb onto a structure that represents THE building violation. Most notably, the Italian government, in its global shout for assistance to fix the Tower in the 1960's, specifically requested that all solutions not eliminate the famous slant in order to promote tourism. Brilliant.

I love the Italians live and let live attitude. Granted, the government does assure us that the lean of the Leaning Tower remains structurally sound for 200 years due to previous creative balancing acts such as taller lengths on the shorter side, bell removal, cables cinched and anchored, unattractive lead weights and most advanced, soil depletion.

In the acres and acres of sunflowers lined along the road to and fro this marvel in Pisa, I ponder this architectural genius and the quixotic legal system in the Boot on a luxurious day in the sun The only conclusion that dings like a light bulb remains, that in Italy, with my legal credentials, I would be immediately and summarily, out of work.

Con te Partiro - With You I Will Leave

2010-01-24T21:57:00.001-06:00

Andrea Bocelli

The power of silence bursts forth in the moment that long-absent noise appears again. If one remains quiet for long periods, maintaining patience and a stillness that which eventually creates a sense of calm and serenity, then the surprise of action, and/or music, any reverberation, begets happiness, excitement and most significantly, a harmonious satisfaction.

Joy percolates in the experience of a rare occurrence. Forgetting about the event or the privilege of it after some time, only later to be pleasantly reminded and surprised that it is still there if only but for a moment. All of us have felt it: the anticipation of something long desired, the wait, the yearning to hear and see and do again. Even when the silence may be difficult, the craving unwavering and at times unbearable, acceptance with the absence eventually takes hold and yet suddenly at the right time, the precious moment when you almost forget, life and music springs forth to unleash a joy that feels anew.

This experience is Lajatico, once a year in the hills of Tuscany at the birthplace of Andrea Bocelli. Beginning in 2006, the world-renowned tenor, sings one soulful and beautiful concert a year at his famous Teatro del Silenzio built in honor of his family and heritage. As a tribute to his mother and father, Bocelli maintains the Teatro in silence all year until the one concert in the summer, when the tiny town explodes with Italians, tourists, artists, dancers, vendors, staff, and of course, the music.

In 2009, Bocelli invited Buddhist monks to tranquilly chant the entrance of this night of music under the stars. The evening continued with Placido Domingo, a brilliant boon for audience goers, and Toquinho, the Brazilian singer and guitarist. It proved truly a night to remember.

Although attendance requires raucously early booking, car rental and/or bus rides and long, long lines for entrance, the trouble dissipates as you wait in the gorgeous Italian sun overlooking the barren countryside with the night culminating in a serenade by classical masters. With horses, acrobatists and orchestra, Bocelli elicited a magical performance that will remain in the hearts of all listeners through the hush of one full year.

Sometimes the absence of sound, action, or any progression supplies energy to the moment when it is time to sing, move, and accomplish again. Maybe the wait and the longing provide for a climax that would be less meaningful without. No doubt, Bocelli fans relish the beauty of the hillside, the soft summer breeze in the small, local town, the travel from far and near to hear, only once a year, the voice of butter of Andrea Bocelli. And it is this silence for most of the year that builds the inertia and vitality that explodes once Bocelli bursts on the scene with his voice on that one occasion every year that Lajatico finally sings.

Firenze's Inferno

2010-01-17T12:10:00.001-06:00

What sins did I refuse to recognize. Did I covet dollars beyond my means, boast laziness and spew wrath. No doubt the summer brought unnecessary lust and gluttony. Yet, did two accomplished sins with five remaining questionable require the temporary judgment to the depths of European climate hell.

Dante, native son of Florence, journeys to the sizzling underworld in his Divine Comedy and warns us to see self-indulgence, violence and maliciousness for what it really is. On the streets of Tuscany, I possessed no coherence, no wherewithal to comprehend or even contain a fleeting thought about my sins in the dizzying array of sweat blurred eyes, fire-burned skin and near self-destructing heat stroke.

What I did recognize, though, was one universal truth. Do not travel to Firenze in the summer. Saint or sinner, you will burn.

Inherently, Firenze encompasses the word "fire" and one should possess full awareness that yes, it is hhhhhot as hell in the summer time. But if you manage to mentally prepare yourself to brace the heat and venture outdoors, it proves smart to sprint right over to one of the many indoor, seriously AC'd religious, artistic or historic attractions. In fact, there seem seven quite heavenly ways to spend your time...

Lust: The statue David, within the Accademia dell'Arte does not disappoint and is actually quite awesome. Michelangelo carves his hero to perfection leaving no detail unturned and a viewer and non-artist much impressed. (This outdoor version mimics the more grandiose indoor masterpiece).

Greed: Both the Salvatore Ferragamo museum, where you will learn more than you need to on mind-bogglingly expensive shoe-making for celebs, stars and the obscenely wealthy and the Pointe Vecchio, infamous for its lined windowed jewelry stores, will make you actually consider joining the seedy corporate rat race in America for those oh so precious green hundred dolla bills.

Wrath: Wineries are not open on Sunday in most of the Chianti region so renting a car, driving aimlessly along winding and maze-like gravel roads through the countryside while cursing and gesturing at the Italians wish to rest on this day of the lord will not satiate the alcoholic in you. But if you can manage your frustration, the views along the lost highways produce enchanting mental escapes.

Sloth: Rent an AC'd apartment with a large balcony on the River Arno and simply sit and sleep all day without a care in the world.

Envy: Resenting toned, thin, fit Italian women while you scarf down heaps and loads of their native delicacies proves unavoidable. So, simply voodoo doll them in your mind and enjoy your meal.

Gluttony: See Envy. Americans can't stop themselves in the U.S. so why even ponder the thought of dieting in fresh, luscious food-producing Italy.

And at the end of it all, climb the steps of the majestic Duomo. Pray, wash and beg your sins away...mostly, for your pride at boasting about your trip to Europe and then burning on its streets like the devil. Karma is a bitch in every religion.

That's Amore

2010-01-10T11:38:00.000-06:00

"When you dance down the street with a cloud at your feet, You're in love...."

Dean Martin captured the combined sentiment that is love and Italy in his 1953 croon, "That's Amore". A translation in reality depicts itself on warm summer nights in Italy, with locals, your friends, and two large scoops of chocolate noir and coffee on a cona.

Dear, dear Gelato.

In Italy, you can't walk ten steps without encountering a gorgeous, lit-up, colorful and enticing Gelato shop. With their rows and rows of freshly made creamy, rich concoctions, parlors of Gelato beckon all, young and old, rich and poor, the belly-filled and even the lactose intolerant. Even when you're not in the mood for an ice-cold treat, you find yourself hand heavy with spheres of sugar slurping away with abandon.

Gelato dates back to frozen desserts served in ancient Rome and Egypt and continues to wow peoples of the world today. Its silky consistency and intense taste satisfy the palate regardless of chosen flavor. For those who lean fruity, crushed fresh and ripe seasonal produce mesh with milk and eggs into a really excellent Gelato. Interesting varieties include Rose, Pistachio, Watermelon and Black Cherry with Cream.

Apparently, Gelato is the less ditzy when compared to its ally, ice-cream and thus results in a stronger more intense flavor. Gelato-makers incorporate air into the freezing process making it denser while air is added to ice-cream after frozen creating more quantity but less va-va-va-voom flavor. Although both make a gal happy, summer nights in Italia never prove complete without a lazy sit and stroll on the streets of any local town with a large heaping of affection on a cone. As anyone who's licked can attest, Gelato always satisfies regardless of the origins of its birth.

Pizza, Prosecco, Gelato....That's Amore

Zen In A Bottle

2010-01-05T20:49:00.002-06:00

Spiritualists, meditators, sages, swamis, musicians and dope heads repeatedly pontificate that "The Moment is Now", "Seek Enlightenment", "Brace Uncertainty", "Change Your Attitude", "Espouse Constant Positivity", "Live Like You're Dying", "Work Hard, But Let It Be", "Detach!", "Lose control! Be free!" Oh man.

My own interpretation, "Freakin Live a Little!"

So what better way to practice what they preach with a little...or maybe a lot...of Prosecco Spumante! Or for the less bubbly, less in tune with their inner psycho, a glass of Frizzante, Italia's less sparkling variety.

No boozer by any means but I do enjoy a little frizzy and an occasional belt and cackle of "ehrrr body in da club gettin tipsy!" And for some reason, I savor the flavor of Prosecco (and its snazzier French bien amie, Champagne). With its overtures of any combination of citrus, lemon, melon, apple, white peach, apricot, almonds or honey (aka the entire produce section), this fermented group of white grapes from the Veneto region classifies as a par-taaay in your mouth, even sans accompaniment.

Served chilled, Prosecco finds itself in bars, clubs and restaurantes all over the world and refreshes the palate and mood for a very spritzy economic exchange. Fermented in large community friendly tanks, Italy's famous bubbly proves much cheaper than its high-maintenance friend, Champagne, which requires each individual bottle be turned then massaged, caressed, cajoled, whispered sweet nothings too and yes begs apologies for the minutest transgression. Alas, the price for the French experience of drops of nectar from the gods on those parched, dry lips. So while in Italy, at least, I stick to my down-to-earth friend and loyal companion, Prosecco.

Of course, consume your fill of Italy's sparkling best wherever you reside but at some point vow to find your spiritual bliss in this country of renaissance with a little bottle of effervescence.

Transcendental Juice of the Day:

Don't worry, be happy.

Celebrate with Frizzante.

And when all else fails, choose Spumante!

Salute Italia!

Lussuria In Italia

2009-12-22T19:18:00.006-06:00

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!

2009-12-16T14:59:00.006-06:00

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

2009-12-11T21:19:00.015-06:00

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

2009-12-06T14:45:00.000-06:00

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

2009-11-26T15:48:00.003-06:00

* 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

2009-11-21T14:06:00.004-06:00

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.

2009-11-19T15:24:00.007-06:00

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

2009-11-16T11:39:00.008-06:00

"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

2009-11-11T20:31:00.007-06:00

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

2009-11-04T12:23:00.006-06:00

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

2009-11-01T11:54:00.007-06:00

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

2009-10-25T22:22:00.014-05:00

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.

2009-10-22T13:01:00.005-05:00

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.

Bugs, Beasts, Balloons...Oh MY!

2009-10-13T18:30:00.007-05:00

What the Thailand.

Its no India, but its certainly a wild oasis in its own right.

First Stop: Phuket. (pronounced: foo-ket)

Adventure 1: Sooo...I did attempt to dorm in a hostel in Phuket Town, but how quickly I arose and leaped on out. Attempting to rough it and maintain backpacker credo, I booked 5 nights at the Phuket Backpacker in downtown Phuket. However, arriving post 10 pm after a delayed 7 hour flight from Sydney, I was in no mood for uninvited guests to share my bed with. This short story remains G-Rated, given that my would-be suitors revealed themselves as spider #1, spider #2, moths 3, 4 and 5, and the big daddy Mr. Earthworm who slithered out of the drain every time I turned the sink water on. Bllleeeaaa-YUUUUCCCK.

That fitful night, I slept without circulating air due to windows closed, engulfed in post-mortem insecticide, thereby high and poisoned and finally tucked like a mummy under the bed covers.

The next day + 4 nights, I indulged myself at the Baumanburi Resort.

Lesson learned: I personally am simply too divalicious for hostels in tropical Asia.

Adventure 2: One of the biggest attractions remains to visit and snorkel off of gorgeous Phi Phi Island (pronounced: pee pee). Most famous as the location where hunky Leo DiCaprio filmed the movie, The Beach, Phi Phi Island was later very hard hit by the 2004 Tsunami. Tourism dollars seemingly went and continue to go a long way to help rebuild and sustain this extremely friendly and beautiful environment.

I figured I too would add my little cash flow to the speed boat tours that would guide me to snorkeling oasis. I was not disappointed. Abundant fish of all sizes and colors, deep deep water, crystal clear underwater views except for the occasional flipper in your face, and waterbed like waves that allowed me to pseudo nap in the sun. Excellent.

Of course, this wondrous day trip started with the delicate exchange at the sidewalk purchase booths where the very nice sales gals accosted me with, "Just one? Just one?...But, why just ONE?"

Lesson learned: One can find Indian aunties all over the world.

Adventure 3: What in the world?! Boat speeds off. Man Runs. Man grabs on to extremely thin ropes. Man uses biceps, triceps to pull himself up onto ropes which are fast gliding high up into the air. Man has nothing on but his shorts and T-shirt. Man then hoists himself onto moving ropes so that he is now "sitting" on one or two alternate flimsy ropes. Man then guides ropes, himself and another person through increasing height, shifting winds and circular motion around Patang Bay all without a harness, net or even sticky glue. This, my friends, is the Thai version of Parasailing.

This simply has to be seen to be understood.

Lesson learned: Awe (or the word "huh") has many different visual expressions in reality.

Adventure 4: 10 a.m., stranger picks me, and only me, up in an underdeveloped vehicle, drives me out of Patang Beach into the unknown hills and finally down a dirt road strewn with random shacks, buildings and more strangers. Honestly, I thought I was going to die. (American media does that to you: anything and everything peaceful can sadly seem like a potential horror movie). Alas, my fears and paranoia proved insane to say the least and my elephant ride turned out to be one of the most exhilarating adventures of my young life. Who knew you could get high without a smoke or lick of alchi. At one point, my guide allowed me to sit on the neck of the gorgeous beast while he jumped off and commanded our beauty down the narrow, rocky paths of the mountain/hill. Awesome. And ain't no thang stepping out of the jungle onto a main highway where aaallll the roadsters stop and stare at the little girl, the Mahout, and the giga-normous elephant simply strolling along...So in princess style I smiled and waved. Who knows, I may never get another moment of fame again.

Lesson learned: Elephants are awesome.

Monkeying Around in Thailand

2009-10-08T12:42:00.007-05:00

aaaahhhhhhhh, Thailand.

Beaches off of Thailand.....even better.

Thai food, AMEN.

Staying in an inexpensive, full-service hotel (Baumanburi Resort), with an enormous Asian-Western, kings-style buffet included and savory, spicy Thai yums yums only a few dollars away, I found myself in a hungry gal's Shangri-La. [Although tis a bit odd when you're engulfing massive amounts of food in a honeymooners resort sans life partner and in fact travelling alone - a perfect picture for mesmerized onlookers but I remained obviously too busy chowing down to notice].

So long story short: I ate, and ate....and ate. Pad Thai with Shrimp. Fried rolls with Crab. Pad see ew with tofu. Fried rice with pork. All spicy, all oily to perfection, all delicious. eeemmmm, guuurl-friend.

Again, not psychic enough to realize I should take pictures and note down any restaurants or meals of choice for a future blog, I can't visually show off any of the delicacies I eagerly consumed. Suffice it to say, if you enjoy Thai cuisine...YOU WILL BE HAPPY...in Thailand.

Adventures in Thailand, to be continued.....

Gone Amok!

2009-10-03T20:40:00.012-05:00

Amok Fish that is.

Wiki explanation of Amok:
"In a typical case of running amok, a male who has shown no previous sign of anger or any inclination to violence will acquire a weapon and, in a sudden frenzy, will attempt to kill or seriously injure anyone he encounters. Amok episodes of this kind normally end with the attacker being killed by bystanders, or committing suicide." .......wow

Why the hell anyone calls this savory, yummy in my tummy, Amok, remains a mystery.

But I must have been in some kind of frenzy because I, yes me, myself and I, decided to cook (you heard me right) this dish of steamed curried fish through the guide of the chefs at the Angkor Palm Restaurant in Siem Reap, Kampuchea. For $7.50 US dollars, you are escorted to the local market (vegetarians beware as all kinds of meats and beasts splay in autopsy display, never mind the breathtaking aroma), provided ingredients, taught the identities of a mind-boggling array of spices, and then allowed to butcher and saute your fish gone crazy to the delight of your Cambodian chef mentors. Great fun.

A traditional Cambodian and Thai dish, Amok Fish is coated in a thick coconut milk with kroeung (a distinguishable Khmer herb paste), made with essential noni leaves and fingerroot and finally either steamed or baked in a cup made from banana leaves. When I tried my very own delicacy, the fish was soft, completely covered in yellowish curry, a little gritty but very, very tasteful. I really enjoyed it and not least because I spent my blood, sweat and tears over it.

And for those of you who have never tried it: What the Morning Glory! I never ate veggies growing up but if I was Cambodian eating the Glory how healthy I would have been. emm, eeemmm, good. Morning Glory consists of a green leafy vegetable that when cooked resembles flat, large, greasy sliced scallions. Its cooked in an oyster sauce with garlic and pork is optional. I cannot describe how flavorful the MG is but I can say that I could simply just eat a plate full of Morning Glory (with a side of Coke) and be done with it. Hallelujah to the vegetable!

Voila! Gourmet Amok Fish w/ Morning Glory

After dinner theater: Khmer Classical Dance

Eat 'Em and Reap

2009-09-27T23:26:00.019-05:00

After years of graaand parties dha-ling, a little...just a little...drunkenness and total debauchery for some 30+ birthdays past, I decided to go all spiritual while travelling and spend this last 30+ commemoration watching the sunrise at Angkor Wat, just outside Siem Reap, Kampuchea (aka Cambodia).

Secretly, I was also hoping that some...any...deep thought would arise on this auspicious day in front of this grand temple. The meaning of life. The source of the universe...Who am I...Who are you...(I wasn't going to be picky).

Needless to say, the day proved magnificent...I mean anything at 5:00 AM with a sunrise is amazing, especially if it's a rare occurrence. Perusing through nature, in front of and through the magnificent ancient ruins believed to be dedicated to the Hindu God Vishnu was awe-inspiring, including the approximately 30 minute rickshaw ride through the Cambodian countryside to see Banteay Srey. (breathtaking, especially when you're in a completely open rickshaw during a heavy, heavy spring rain)

Ultimately, though, it wasn't only Angkor that made the day awesome but more the colorful characters who traversed with me...and of course, the street-side meal(s) I had that day.

Low and behold you can actually make friends at the crack of dawn: Wrongly assuming that I would be the only person at the Wat so early (there were in fact around a 1,000 people there), I met Holger, the German, immediately upon arrival and he kindly served as my BFF for the rest of the day. Although funny and entertaining, his marked characteristic was to get me to eat at a $2 noodle cart across from the entrance of Angkor. A feat unto itself.

If I remember correctly, the meal, purely vegetarian, was Khao poun (rice noodles in a coconut base sauce). Savory, warm, flavorful - it hit the spot. aaaannd....for the gastro sensitive, I was spared any "issues" post consumption. Success all around.

The fun part about Cambodia is that you can't eat a meal in or around any of the famous temples without a group of the most adorable children trying to sell ya something: scarves, fans, t-shirts and a whole set of very necessary miniature toy soldiers. Yes, some travelers may not seek new little friends, but I highly recommend engaging them in conversation. It is hilarious: they ask you where you're from and "swaziland" as a white european or "the moon" as an indian-american elicits large smiles, giggles and new found buddies. And, you'll learn every U.S. state capital from Cambodian children who spend most of their time out of school. [More than most Americans learn in 12 mandatory years]. These pics are two separate groups of kids who I wish only the best in health, wealth and happiness.

quote of the day:
"you take my picture, you paaay me!"

Upon returning to my guest house that night, I learned that my parents "harassed" the very kind receptionist and laughed heartily in disbelief when he reported that I had left my room in the wee hours to view the sunrise at a holy temple. To this statement my incredulous family demanded that he not dilly dally and immediately connect them to my room by phone, exclaiming that their [very accomplished*] daughter would nhhhhhhheever arise that early and for a holy adventure. Shame on you moms and pops for doubting the sanctity and maturity of your only daughter, unapparently your pride and joy!

*emphasis added by yours truly

Do I Love Her, Do I Love Her Not?

2009-09-21T16:37:00.008-05:00

HER? Who's Her? Cambodia, my friends.

Since traveling alone half way around the world wasn't scary enough, I decided I would terrify the shiznit out of myself even further and go to Cambodia. What the hell? Yes, that's what I thought too.

Figuring that if I was going to quit my job...during the Greatest Recession....and go aaaaalllll the way to Australia then why not Southeast Asia. Simple enough.

But mustering the hutzpah to do it was a study in courage and self-dialogue (or as amateurs like to call it, "talking to myself"). In the end, I chose to close my eyes, take a deep breath and leap...meaning, buy the damn ticket. (It wasn't swimming but I'm equally scared of both).

To conclude before I even start, this choose my own adventure ended in one of the best times of my life. Taking hold of your fears, taking the jump into uncertainty, can often times lead to the most fun of your life. And the feeling of empowerment can fill your soul like a favorite meal in your belly - sometimes you can just burst of happiness.

So before I get to the Cambodian delicacies I thoroughly enjoyed, I thought I'd sing an ode to my beloved with a song in pictures.

and yes. I HEART Cambodia.

Goin back to Ozzie...ozzie...ozzie

2009-09-06T20:37:00.064-05:00

On second thought, there's a few MVP's from the land of Oz that require an honorable mention in terms of grubbin: Mani and Le Chef Cuisinier Francais.

FIRST COURSE: The Indomitable Mani

Mani (in organge kurta) and her good lookin' brood

Who woulda thunk it that I would experience fragrantly spicy, full course Bangladeshi meals Down Under. As the reigning Queen of Cuisine a la the Sundarbans, Mani not only served Dhakka staples of soft white rice and delectable fish curry, but also spiced mutton, tons of masala'ed veggies and daal, or lentils. Although I haven't mastered the great South Asian art of eating curried rice with my hands, I'm rsvp'ing to all meals served with lovin by the elegant Mrs. Mani. I'll just take the snickers and guffaws for eating like an uncouth snob using my fork and knife.

Sundarbans, Bangladesh

SECOND COURSE: Le Chef Cuisinier Francais

hmmmm...or things that make you go yuuummmmmm...

how to start describing the best apple tarte tatin (or as i heard it, "tah-tah, tohn!"). this french fruit dessert was created on the gorgeous shores of Byron Bay, Australia by what I'd like to hope were also very lovin hands. Although the very winsome pastry chef will remain nameless, his home-made caramel, apple,

sugar sweet oooh la la made me want to keep this native frenchie in my kitchen..any kitchen..for a very long time.

Although I'm a serious restaurateur, Mani and LCCF are top chef to me and I'd be happy to sit for their hearty belly-fillin, home-cooked cuisine tours les jours. Bon Appetit!

Byron Bay, Australia

Brekkie in Ozzie?

2009-08-26T18:29:00.022-05:00

In Feb. of 2009 I left for the shores of Australia, solo.
Was I little nervous? Absolutely.

But I thought the love of food, my friend, would keep me company.

Alas, Australian cuisine did not excite as I might have hoped. Didn't have a barbie and can't cook anyhow...but I was also hikin, boatin, swimmin etc and thus the quality of food proved not a top priority at the time. On the other hand, and quite satisfying, surfers were definitely abundant and on the menu.

yummy

.....anyways. I did get to try an excellent kangaroo thanks to my very witty friend Yvonne. What does kangaroo taste like: DEE-Licious. I mean, really. Surprisingly, my little piece was tender, extremely flavorful and mouthwatering. I would eat it again if I could.

Sadly, I can't remember the name of the restaurant where I experienced such delight but I wholeheartedly recommend some kangaroo the next time you're in Oz.

Just not these cute little guys.
Blue Mountains, near Sydney Australia

Hizz-istory

2009-08-25T18:56:00.002-05:00

why this blog?

I love to travel, I love to take pictures and....I LOVE to eat!

Me

I quit my great job 6 months ago to travel the world. Had a grand adventure and now sittin in front of the computer looking for a J.O.B. So why not enjoy the fat inducing search by procrastinating on the computer chattin about my favorite things.

I Don't Like Nuts on My Buns

2009-08-25T18:06:00.007-05:00

That's what she said. Yes. Unfortunately. That she is me. Sapna.

Summer of 2009 in Houston, TX having a grand lunch with good friends. Ordered a luscious turkey burger and thinking I would start the season off right, requested a wheat bun, which to my horror, was infused with whole grains. To my impending embarrassment, I politely, yet vocally, stated the now infamous title of this blog.

Apparently, that's what I said. And now my "good" friends, Bido and Nimesh, won't let me forget it. Who needs enemies when ya have friends.

Bido
Nimesh