Jaipur, The Monkey Temple

When our personal auto rickshaw driver dropped us off at the Monkey Temple,we were greeted by two adorable boys, who took it upon themselves to be our personal guides for the walk up the pathway to the temple which was literally crawling with monkeys. The younger boy, Eliud?, immediately reached out and shook my hand and introduced himself. I attempted to avoid the uncomfortable awkwardness of negotiating a fee by telling them that we really didn't need a guide, but his friend soon warned us that they would need to be there to protect us from the aggressive monkeys. By then they had won my heart and we began our trek up the hill.

As we strolled, Eliud danced around us asking all kinds of questions like. Are you married? What do you do for work? Do you have children? How many? His dirty jeans and broken sandals flapped around his feet. He had a big speech impediment that he had absolutely no self consciousness about. They were both incredibly sweet and incredibly excited to escort us. Ram, the older boy told me about school and how he wanted to be a business man when he grew up. It seems that is the dream of many young Indian men. Ram was well on his way to this career.

At one point I was reaching to feed one of the monkeys a peanut and Ram jumped in and said, "not him, he is an aggressive one". Before I got too close, Ram, defending me fearlessly, waved a karate kick at the old monkey. The old monkey growled and ran away from us. Yep, these boys were not just our guides, but our personal bodyguards on the path up to the Monkey Temple, which turned out to be a highlight of our stay in Jaipur.

Marcia and the Train

So when John told me that riding the train in India was a fascinating experience, I pictured myself gazing out the window at mountains and fields. Having broken English conversations with women in colorful saris and their animated children staring curiously at us from their seats across the aisle.

I always thought I had a pretty good stomach for spicy foods, so when I started to feel nauseous, I assumed it would quickly pass and I would be well on my way to eating street food in Delhi. But after a series of unpleasant waves of sickness, I was feeling a bit more "thoughtful" about trying new Indian dishes. Especially those prepared in dirty street food carts with lots of flies and grease hanging ominously in the air.

Adding a 22 hour train ride to this "state of being" was probably not the best plan, but it seemed easier than trying to postpone the reservation considering the four hour visit to the foreign traveler line in Victoria Station.

I established some ground rules for the journey. If I get sicker, we need to stop along the way and resume the trip at a later date. I get the window seat and I get the bottom bunk. Seemed reasonable, and John was completely on board with the plan.

The day begins with a two hour journey to the train station from Ganeshpuri. Don't forget that I'm nauseous already, and we are weaving in and out of traffic, precariously close to giant fume spewing trucks and two cycle rickshaws buzzing along like lawn mowers. I keep telling myself that it will get better when we arrive in Bandra, at the train station. The "it will get better" philosophy is dangerous because there is always some unknown that still has to happen. So one can convince oneself to press on regardless of the current horrible circumstances.

We finally get on the train and make it to our seats without much difficulty. Our friends had warned that traveling on the sleeper class is pretty harsh, even for Indian standards and they usually travel AC third class at least. With AC third class, you are provided with a pillow and a blanket to sleep with. With sleeper, you're on your own with the whole bedding thing. The seats are big benches that fold down. The upper two become beds and the lowest one is a seat for three, until it's time to go to sleep. Then it becomes a bed too.

John and I are lucky because we got the bottom bunk. That is until an old lady and her large daughter smile at us and ask if we would mind if they took the bottom bunks. Of course we couldn't say no to an old lady and her daughter. So, it's off to the top bunk for Marcia. But that's okay because I'm eager to escape into sleep earlier than most of the others in our car.

At first the car isn't too full, but after about three stops, there are many more people than there are seats available. People are squished together four or five on a bench. A few others are standing. But that's okay, cause I've got my own bunk and I can climb up there and go to sleep anytime I want to.

Now let's just talk about smell a little bit more. One of John's pitches for the sleeper car over the AC third class is that the windows are left open and you can breathe the fresh air. Now let's talk about "fresh air". I think of fresh air as air that is absent of the smell of diesel fuel, human waste, burning garbage, rotting garbage, and (when you don't feel too well) several scents from the Indian kitchen. So, fresh air, on the top bunk of a sleeper car is pretty rare. After sitting for a friendly forty minutes, I decide to venture up to my bunk and try to sleep away the waves of nausea coming over me pretty regularly. Unfortunately, our friends on the bottom bunk decide to start snacking on something that does not smell like "fresh air".

It's okay. It's really okay because I have jasmine oil that I bought in Ganeshpuri. But then I start to wonder about the sweet intensity of jasmine oil and I decide it is not a scent I want to ruin for the rest of my life because I associate it with the time when I felt sick on a sleeper car in India. So I settle for wrapping my face in a scarf and breathing in the filtered scent of cotton, curry and diesel fuel.

Now, about me and sickness. I don't really do it very well. I usually convince myself of the worst possible scenario and run with it. So now I'm imagining that I have dysentary or malaria and this is the place I'm going to die-- on the top bunk of a sleeper car in India. I certainly will have enough time to do this considering that there are still 20 hours of train ride left in this trip.

Finally I doze off. When I wake up, the train is dark and there is the quiet sound of train tracks and breathing. Ahhh. This isn't so bad. But then a wave of nausea comes over me and I realize I will have to face the train toilet.

Now, about train toilets in India. They are nothing like any that I've ever experienced. The better choice is the Indian version rather than the western version. At least with the Indian version, you don't have the possibility of sitting on a filthy toilet seat, since there isn't a toilet seat. Yep, you just squat over a hole that goes right down to the tracks. I had been warned relentlessly about the "train toilet". Even John, the pollyannist of Indian travel, actually expressed some concern about the train toilet. I actually avoided drinking any water just to see if I could completely avoid having such a rich experience.

So, the idea of having the runs on a train toilet... well, yep, it scared the shit out of me. But, the moment came and I knew I had to face the dark throne. So I started to get up and when I look down from my upper bunk I see that the whole train is filled with sleeping men. They are not just sleeping in the bunks, they are sleeping in the aisles, they are sleeping in the places between where the seats face each other, they are sleeping in the entry way between the cars, they are lying on each other sleeping, they are squatted in corners sleeping. They are everywhere. There is not a single place for me to put a foot down on firm ground without stirring some strange man. I reach down and tap John until he is awake. I show him my problem and he seems authentically concerned. Of course, there is nothing he can do to help, so I hate him. After all, he was the one that thought it would be fun to ride in the sleeper car and have an authentic Indian experience.

Fortunately, or perhaps "psychosomatically" for the sake of self preservation, the urge passes and I decide to return to the world of sleep for what I hope will last about 16 hours. But before I do, I reach down, tap John awake one more time just to let him know that I will never forgive him for this.

I only wake up a few more times to enjoy the rhythmic sounds of multiple men snoring and farting in imperfect synchronicity.

But in all fairness, I did get to see a couple of cool mountains.

And more...

The Flower Shop

The Butcher Shop

Cows are sacred, and don't you for get it.

More images from Ganeshpuri

This is me (in pajamas) and Viajay, a storekeeper who had amazing essential flower oils.

Nonny, Nonna and me by the outdoor burner. Very rustic.

John makes new friends.

Images from Ganeshpuri

This is Denish, our host's, daughter. Her name is Deodevania. She looks like a little goddess.

This little school girl had the most aggressive sales pitch I've ever heard. She joyfully posed for this picture.

This is the outdoor kitchen of our hosts. Nonny (grandmother) and her friend are preparing what I think was tamarind. Never got a definitive answer on this.

Me and Meditation. January 21

One of the reasons I wanted to come to India is because of John's incredible enthusiasm about the village where his spiritual guide lived and died. He's always talking about the great "shakti" there. So Ganeshpuri was absolutely essential to our itinerary. It's a small rustic Indian village, and yes, I mean rustic like cooking over fires, keeping chickens and water buffalo, and sleeping, eating and entertaining in the same cement room that you have your business located.

So, what do people do in Ganeshpuri when they are not milking the water buffalo? They meditate and chant in the temple of the Guru Nityananda. Yep. And there is also this Ashram that attracts people from all over the world. Kind of like the "pray" part of "Eat, Pray, Love".

Okay. So I've tried to meditate and it usually just feels like a monumental waste of time. But I'm married to this guy that gets totally blissed out on meditation. He has all sorts of amazing, joyful moments when he meditates and I just have achey hips.

Arriving in Ganeshpuri was a relief and a burden. There was the relief of not being trapped in a smelly, throbbing overwhelming city and the burden of a whole new set of problems to get used to. Problems like how will I escape this feeling of being a total fraud, fake, cheesy new age guru groupie. Ganeshpuri is the hub of Baba Muktananda and Nityananda. They are both the gurus of John's Guru. The place that we are staying is across the street from the ashram where people come from all over the world to have "darshan" with these Gurus. I just learned that "darshan" means "in the company of saints", but of course when our host, Denish used it like I say it everyday in my life, I nodded and smiled a complicit smile that said, "Oh yeah. Totally do darshan all the time." When he started talking about how he grew up with Guru Maya and his father played with Muktananda and his grandfather cared for Nityananda, I realized that I'm into this pretty deep. It's like when you stopped listening to someone, but you're nodding your head like you still know what she's talking about and it just gets deeper and deeper because you finally have no idea whether you should be agreeing or disagreeing. I still want to confess to Denish. "I don't have any idea what I'm doing here. I just came along because I like Indian food." But he continues to talk to me like I've been practicing his religion for my whole life and I continue to pretend that I have.

As I continued to think about this problem I managed to work myself into a lovely little anxiety spiral. Alright, now I was not trapped in the depths of a frightening city, I was trapped in a spiritual mecca of devotees. Everybody here says "namaste". It's like saying "hello". I always thought it was a yoga word. There are still beggars, but they are enlightened and try to sell you offerings for the guru. Every westerner I meet is blissed out and wearing Indian clothes. Yep. I had a whole new situation to untangle.

Talking to John about it helped. I usually get some valuable advice about my anxiety by talking to John. I call it "talking me down". I usually need this when my thoughts have spun out of control about some problem I'm grappling with, like an angry parent from school or a complicated lie I have spun for myself or a multitude of problems. So, his advice was good for me. "Maybe you can just treat it like something you're checking out"...like taking a car for a test drive or browsing for a movie. I thought that since I'm at the "hub" of a spiritual mecca, I might as well give it a shot. So, I got a book about meditation at the book store and read it last night.

Today, after lunch, John wanted to go to "Muktananda's Maha Samadi Shrine". Other than a mouthful, this is the place where Muktananda's body rested. Maha Samadi means "the great merging". Cool. Okay. I'll check it out. I decided that I would just go in and walk through the routine that everybody else did.

The part that has always made me uncomfortable is all the prostrating gestures that others made. People would touch their hands to their hearts and kiss their fingertips and touch their fingertips to the edge of the shrine. Others would lie down on the floor in front of the shrine and kiss the floor. Others would kneel before the shrine and close their eyes and say a prayer. Teenagers and old folks all did this. All this felt really insincere and phony for me. I wasn't sure about how I felt about this whole thing, but I didn't want to be disrespectful and not follow the rules. I'm a big fan of "following the rules", frequently this is motivated out of "fear". Not sure I know what's going to happen if I don't follow the rules, but I still have the innate fear, so I guess it doesn't matter what I'm afraid of. I'm not proud of this. I frankly can't stand this quality in myself. But it's definitely there.

But I'm just checking it out. Not joining a cult. Not giving up all of my worldly belongings to a stranger. Just checking it out, taking it further, checking it out. I feel a different confidence with this new attitude. I stroll into the temple and follow the protocol. Step up to the offering table, bow, walk clockwise. I don't look at the guru with love like I think I'm supposed to. I just look with curiosity. In my head I'm thinking, "alright, what are you all about anyway?" It feels like I'm facing him. Just standing in his presence. Then I walk up to the alter where there is a bunch of flowers. I go through the motion of bowing down in front of the alter, and as I do, I catch the scent of the jasmine in the tray. I know what I'm gonna do at the altar. I'm just gonna breathe in. It feels great.

Having gotten through the most public and, for me, most difficult part of the ritual, I settle onto the cool marble floor. I lean my back against the cool marble wall and I close my eyes. Now the internal conversations begin. The meditation instruction book gave me permission to not have a mantra. Another way to meditate is to sort of step outside of yourself and observe your thoughts as they occurred without judgement. So I give it a shot. I observe that I'm uncomfortable in the temple. I observe that this feels weird and foreign. I observe that there are other people in the room looking around. I adjust myself on the floor and I observe that I'm self conscious about moving around.

This is starting to get old so I decide to try the mantra idea. But I don't want to say something I don't understand in Sanskrit. So I try to think of what I can say and the words come to me from somewhere else, "silly, silly Marcia. What are you so afraid of?" I can feel a smile growing on my face and I'm set free just a little bit. That is my mantra? This is my mantra. I start repeating it over and over again. I want to laugh and I can picture Muktananda laughing too. We are both laughing heartily at me. But it's not a mean or sarcastic laugh. It's a joyful, full laugh like we're a couple of teenagers at a pajama party.

I continue to repeat my new mantra until it starts to get old. Then I switch back to observing my thoughts again. I observe that there is a woman on the other side of the room who is very serious about her meditation. I start to slip into thoughts about how she is phony and pretentious about meditation. Muktananda says, "why do you care about her? What does your opinion of her matter?" But I don't feel my typical reaction to that judgement. I just easily observe that he's right.

Then I break out the hard stuff. I let those feelings of homesickness and sadness come to the surface. I observe that I miss Mom and Sally. I observe that I feel scared about them being safe and well. I observe that these feelings are about me feeling bad that I'm not with them, but far away from them instead. I observe that I'm judging myself for this. I observe that I love them very much. Now it is getting hard to be outside of myself. I'm starting to well up with tears.

After several breaths and repetitions of "silly silly marcia what are you so afraid of" I feel back on track. A new feeling comes to me, from what seems to be a new place. I'm not really separated from them. I had this image of me, Mom and Sally spinning up into the sky like a twisting, freeing vortex of white energy. Not easy to fathom, but that is what I observed and it felt great, like I was riding the vortex up through the ceiling.

Finally, the thoughts about the begging I was dealing with came up. I observed that I felt shame about it. I observed that I felt angry about all this shit. I observed that I was trying to fix everyone. I observed that I was feeling pretty important about all this power I had. Then, out of somewhere else. "I don't have to figure out everything. But when I decide to give someone money, I should be fully present with them. Not, here's some money now leave me and my guilt alone. Instead, I will look the person in the eye and put the money into his or her hand and be there for the exchange." I know I didn't think of that all by myself.

Then I observed that I felt great. Much of the tight awkward self-consciousness in my body was gone. I walked out of the temple and smiled at the three guys guarding the place with their guns and uniforms. I strolled over to get my shoes and the two guys waiting to sell me flower garland offerings waited there to hit me up for rupees. I checked in with myself and smiled at them and said, "no thanks fellas" and I strolled up the hill.

On Giving

Since I have arrived in India, I have wrestled with the old familiar dilemma about giving to beggars. I just seem to have this incredibly awkward feeling come over me when someone obviously in need asks of me something that is easy to give.

Many voices...
The feeling is hard to describe because it is loaded with all sorts of thoughts. All sorts of voices go off in my head. My own voice saying."Marcia, just give the person ten rupees...that's less than a friggin quarter"
Then Marcia argues with Fair Marcia who says, "Why should I give this person ten rupees and not the other twenty people checking me out to see if I'm gonna give them the same amount."
Then Practical Marcia says, "You're not doing a beggar a favor by just giving him money."
Then Scared Marcia says, "If I give this person ten rupees, I will have to engage with him or her. I will have to make eye contact. Have the mental conversation that happens with eye contact.".
By the time all of the Marcias have spoken, I'm already past the person and Guilty Marcia says, "You're just as cold and callous as the rest of the world."

My new plan....
In Ganeshpuri, I have decided, with some help from meditation, that I will give only when I have the urge to do so and then I will be "fully present" with the person that I am giving to. So often I give the person something while feeling all kinds of reactions like "just leave me alone" or "I know this is not enough" or "this feels incredibly awkward and scary, so just take this money and don't look at me". So my new plan is to stop, decide, reach in my pocket, take out the money, look the person in the eyes and say something like, "I'm choosing to give this to you. Have a nice day."
So far it has been okay. I haven't suddenly become a philanthropist or anything, but I feel comfortable with my strategy... and I get to actually have some benefit from it as well.

A funny story about giving...
Rupees. I'm mathematically challenged, and I know I'm not supposed to say that cause I'm a woman and it establishes a stereotype for math and girls, but I am mathematically challenged. Here is an example of how much of a hardship it is for others. John has explained to me that the best way to figure out the exchange of the rupee for the dollar is to take the amount of rupees and double it. That is how many cents it equals. So I come out of this temple, feeling good about my new plan and there's this little guy who always bugs me to buy these strands of flowers as an offering to the saints. And there's this other guy that competes with him. It's all very entertaining.
Usually I just wave them away, but this time I decide to buy a strand of jasmine flowers from him. I reach into my pocket and offer him twenty rupees. It's not a coin, it's an actual bill with Mahatma Gandhi's picture on it and a shiny iridescent bar across the front. It looks pretty important, so I decide to give it to him. He keeps asking for more and I tell him that's all I have to give. He won't take it, so I just smile, slip it into his pocket and stroll away without the jasmine, but feeling good about what I did. When I get back to our room, I tell John about it. Then I ask him how much twenty rupees equals and he says, 40 cents. All that time I was thinking it equaled about four dollars.

Mumbai is Not for Beginners

Arriving at the airport in Mumbai. The flight was easier than I expected. We had a brief wait in Kuwait only about four hours. Not bad compared to Sally and Jake.

Okay, okay. I'm avoiding it. Arriving in Mumbai was horrific.
The first thing I experience when I start to move through the slow line for customs is the familiar smell of diesel and gasoline. But it's strong. At 5 in the AM, going through customs and finally getting a taxi after standing in line with others for the prepaid taxis. The next smell is the acrid smell of burning garbage. I am asked over and over again if I want a taxi, a ride, a car. I can feel peoples' eyes on me, but I don't meet their gaze because that will mean they will ask me for money which will mean that I have to go through a moral self assessment of myself and my culture and my whole fucking relationship with the universe and it's five in the morning.

Soon I realize that I'm surrounded by men, only men. For every one woman there must be fifty men, 100 men. I know we are not supposed to make eye contact, but I am aware of their gaze. I want to grab John's hand. Tuck my arm in next to his elbow like I always do. But that has a different message here. I just don't get it, but then there are already a lot of things I don't get, and I haven't even left the airport.

Okay, I say to myself. It's just the airport. Airports are not always pleasant, and this one I'm seeing at 5 AM. Things will improve on the drive to the hotel. After all, we are staying at the Hotel New Bengal. We were smart and made advance reservations.
But the drive is not easier. It is worse. There are no lanes in India. Just cars and trucks and motorcycles and other strange vehicles merging in and out of an endless flow of horns and more horns. Even at 5 AM there are vehicles everywhere. I look out the window and I see dirty, filthy streets covered in trash and so much dust. And living in this filth are so many people. People of all ages sleeping on sidewalks, under cement bridges, everywhere. And there are people walking. I have no idea to where they are walking at 5AM, but they are walking. Some seem to be just walking. The expression on their faces is empty. Later I will recognize it as hungry, surviving expressions.
Women wrapped in colorful fabrics squat in the dirt engaged in stirring, folding or some other activity. Men squat in little circles talking. Many people are just standing around looking at the cars passing by them. They are all surrounded by dusty, old corrugated metal walls. Some have small concrete rooms with dark, doorless entrances. Sometimes I can see inside them. On the floors I see a piece of fabric, some clothes, and much more dirt. You know that feeling you get when you walk barefoot through dry dirt and you just ache to dip your feet in water and rinse away all the dryness. I felt it all over.

And the smells kept coming. All of them are unpleasant and overwhelming. I've always known I had a sensitive sense of smell. In these conditions it was my worst handicap. There was no way to avoid it. Covering my nose only meant I would taste it instead. And I didn't want to taste these smells.

I thought, 'these are the slums. It can't be like this everywhere'. I longed for the comfort of my hotel room. A respite from the smells and the noise and the people everywhere. When we pulled up to our hotel, my heart sank. There was a sign out front that said "Hotel New Bengal", but it looked nothing like a respite from the busy road. It looked just like everything else. We are on a budget and this was described as a budget price hotel. Things are a bargain in India, but not hotels in Mumbai, I guess.

The reception to the hotel was a row of boys most likely between the ages of 13 and 19. The oldest boy was behind the counter, ready to check us in. As he looked for our name, I hoped it would not show up. That somehow, there were two "Hotel New Bengals" in Mumbai, and we were delivered to the wrong one. The one we were supposed to be delivered to had a plush lobby with shiny marble floors and glittering brass hardware. Nope. This was it. Mr. and Mrs. Pit-cherrr would be sleeping in room 209 tonight.

I could go on about the room, the shower, the filth, the smells. I could go on about it all, but the bottom line is that I was completely overwhelmed. I sat on the hard bed, looked around the room and more importantly, this incredibly foreign world I was in and I began to cry. I cried big, frightened tears. I cried myself to sleep and I was thankful that I was tired, so I would cry less.

Morning. As all mornings do, it brought some relief. There was that first waking moment, when it hadn't registered where I was and I only felt the blankets around me and John next to me. Then the whole memory of the night before came screaming back into my head and I began to cry some more. I felt really trapped. I had no idea how to escape all the noise and smell and relentless eye contact. I envisioned myself hiding in hotel rooms for the next six weeks. SIX WEEKS. What have I gotten myself into?

The next few days were a series of attempts to navigate through Mumbai. We waited for two hours in the foreign tourist line at Victoria Station and had an informative conversation with a few more seasoned travelers.

Victoria Station. From a distance you see its beauty- the details in the construction, the shape against the sky. Up close it is run down, in need of repair, surrounded in dirt, trash, rubble and people. John quoted a statistic to me that every day 2 million people move through Victoria Station. The day we were there was no exception. It was in front of it that John nearly had his wallet stolen from a boy and man pickpocket duo. In that day we also managed to eat and buy some clothes. I suddenly felt a strange affection for the Hotel New Bengal. It was a bit of a respite from the craziness outside. I returned to my room, and...yep, cried some more. I'm sure it was probably induced by jet lag and saying goodbye to Sal and Jake and all those things.

My family always teases me for being too sensitive. I've learned to reconcile that by recognizing that my sensitivity makes me a better human because I have more compassion. But this compassion was so overwhelming. There was no way to manage it. In the taxis mothers holding little hungry children would tap on the window asking for money. One time, in this sea of crazy traffic I saw a little girl, no taller than three feet, moving through the traffic without even a glimpse of fear in her eyes. Yes. I was definitely too sensitive.

The next day I made it to the Gateway to India and out to the place where we were to catch the ferry for Elephanta Island, but then a wave of nausea came over me. John was very helpful at finding me a place to recover so that I wouldn't have to publicly puke on the streets of India. The Taj Hotel.

The Taj is a gigantic, super deluxe, elegant hotel. John had noticed in the newspaper that on this particular day, Kanye West, the rapper, was staying there. We had planned to have tea there when we came to Mumbai. Now, all that I cared about was the ladies room. After we made it through the security screening and through the gigantic revolving door and were inside another overwhelming smell took over. Apparently, they improve the ambience of the lobby with some air freshener that was nauseatingly sweet, although everything was nauseating for me at that moment. We wandered down a hall past photos of John Lennon, George Bush, Michael Douglas and a bunch of other famous folks that had stayed there. I briefly wondered what their first impression of India was after being swept into this posh hotel. I found a ladies room and entered briefly enough to know that my senses wouldn't be able to endure the new overwhelming scent in there. Finally we sat in a quiet place long enough for the nausea to pass. I had no desire to sit there any longer nor to have tea there. I actually longed for the good old Hotel New Bengal and its nearly scent free room. Ironic.

I keep asking John, so what do you love about India? I don't get it yet.

We decide to leave Mumbai a day early and move on to Ganeshpuri, the little village where John's guru lived and died. As we drive for what feels like two hours, I wonder I'd there is any fresh air anywhere in India.

Highlights from Italy

It's Tuesday, January 17. Jake and Sally just left for the more than 24 hour trip back to freezing Maine. (I think the high for the day is 0 there)
John and I are waiting for our flight to Kuwait and then Mumbai, to begin our second leg of the adventure.
I'm feeling a little nervous about this part of the journey. Italy was like a vacation, but I suspect that India will be quite different. Truth is, I want it to be different. Vacation is fine for a few weeks, but pretty soon, eating in restaurants and seeing the sights gets stale. Sort of like some of the Italian pastries I ate along the way.
I think Jake and Sally were ready to go home. They both have interesting activities awaiting them and one can only spend so much time with a parent.
We had some wonderful experiences in Italy. I haven't been writing as frequently as I expected to, but that is due to the fact that, at the end of the day, I was usually so full of pasta and Italian wine that sleep was more enticing than writing.

Here are a few highlights of the rest of the Italy experience.
Rant: I'm not going to apologize to anyone about my love for food. I've been teased by the whole family (particularly John) for my fascination with food. I love it. I don't just love to eat it, I also love to learn about it. I love to learn about how it's made. I love to see the magic of its transformation from grapes to sweet vinegar, from milk to delicious cheese, from flour to soft flaky croissant or hard crusty bread. Yep, I love it all. I was the one that found the great restaurants and enjoyed the reviews and researched the background. It is a rich food history that has made me the way I am and if it is by butter I must die, then so be it!

Rave: What is it about Italians and rap music. We went to this lovely little ristorante for dinner one night. It was quaint. Little checkered table cloths. Friendly little fake flower bouquets. A cute older couple having dinner together and chatting about what I assumed was how delicious the food was, since it was!!! I ordered the sepia prepared the venitian way in its own ink.
As we enjoyed this lovely environment, we got to listen to "you my bitch" music. It was more bizarre to me than offensive.. I just thought it was hilarious for the waiter to be taking our order over the sound of bitch, ho, fuck and other musical interludes.

Rant: Timing is everything. I missed amazing opportunities because I discovered them a day late or a day early. I really wanted to see some commedia dell arte mask work in Italy. I researched pretty aggressively and found no listings of live performances. Commedia is this form of theater that I've only been able to read about and very seldom do I see it performed. And never in its homeland, Italy!
So why, on the morning that we are leaving Venice, does John discover an authentic mask exhibit and performance of Commedia dell arte? I tend to think it's because the travel gods are punishing me for my transgressions. Or, maybe I just need to travel more. I am grateful to have been able to at least see the mask exhibit before we left. Bottom line is, check early, don't rely solely on the Internet, ask questions a lot and accept that I can't see it all.

Rhapsody: Children and traveling light. Ahhh. We are on our way to warm sunny most likely smelly Mumbai today and John and I have managed to slim our baggage down to three carry-on bags. It is luxurious. Our wonderful, so-grateful-for-the-trip-to-Italy children have agreed to carry our other bags and COATS back to Maine. I offer my deepest gratitude to them and especially to Sally who has agreed to wash all my dirty clothes.

But seriously. I'm most grateful to have had this incredible opportunity to spend so much time with Sally and Jake. Watching them joke and banter was my absolute favorite part of this trip. There is something about travel that changes the way we are together in a sweet way. So, I felt completely justified waving to them over and over and over again as we parted ways this morning. Even if it looked like I was sending a couple of five year olds off to kindergarten.

Balsamico, Balsamico, God Shed his Grace on Thee.

On January 10, Sally and I went out to dinner together. Ladies night! We found a great restaurant in Modena called Ristorante da Danilo. Sally was having that familiar experience of wanting whatever the other person was having. I had conigilia (rabbit) and she kept asking for bites. I was actually delighted to share it and gladly gave her more since she, (a bit of a picky eater) doesn't always want to try new things. Then when it came to dessert I ordered vanilla gelato with balsamic vinegar and she (wrinkling her nose at the idea of eating ice cream with vinegar) ordered lemon sorbet. She was so excited by my balsamic vinegar topping that she begged me to switch desserts halfway through the eating.
Suddenly, she was much more interested in going to a Villa that makes the traditional balsamic vinegar.
So, on January 11 we went to Aceto Balsamico Tradizionale Villa San Donnino where we met Davide, who gave a wonderful tour of his villa. When we entered, the smell of vinegar permeated the whole building. But it was not a typical sour vinegar smell. It was a fragrant moment. All three of us were immediately captivated by the journey. Davide explained that only two specific kinds of white and red grapes were used to make the vinegar. He told us that most people don't know (including us) that true balsamic vinegar is made with only the grapes and no other ingredients.
Go to your kitchen now and look at your balsamic vinegar bottle. Look at the ingredients. Well. Do you have true balsamic vinegar? Neither did I.
We learned that the grapes are crushed and the juice or must is taken and placed into an oak barrel. The juice journeys through several different barrels including cherry, ash, chestnut, mulberry, Each barrel infuses the juice with distinct flavors and colors. These barrels were lined up from largest to smallest. Each one had an opening on the top over which a small cloth was laid. Davide explained that the first batch of balsamic vinegar can be collected after a minimum of 12 YEARS. After he said that I knew this was a labor of love.
Then we got to taste the real deal. Here comes the rhapsody. We tasted the stuff that is in my kitchen. Then we started tasting the real thing. There as absolutely no similarity between real aged balsamic vinegar and the stuff in my kitchen. Tasting it was intensely satisfying. The subtlety and complexity of the flavor. The intensity of the moment it hits the tongue. It was just like a wine tasting thing I did with my sibs a few years ago. We were coached to think about the hints of flavors each wine offered....the finish...where it rested in the mouth. Another analogy for it is the difference between the flavor of Aunt Jemima's and real Maine made maple syrup. Frankly, I think it would be delicious to pour a little authentic balsamic on a pancake. Of course it would cost you about 20 bucks to do it.
All three of us must have looked like we were addicts after we tasted the 35 year old version. Davide showed us his private stock where he had a few barrels that dated back over 70 years. With no hesitation at all we bought some 15 year old syrupy-sweet-and-sourness. Sally has been instructed where to hide it in the house and no one is allowed to open it until we return.

Sweet Cheese

Blog for January 11

Today was and excellent day for Marcia Pitcher, cheese lover and master of agri-tourism.

At 7 AM, John and I were up and on the road to the "Sezione di Modena e Bologna
Consorzio del Formaggio Parmigiano-". Yes. That's right. The cheese factory. A dairy. It was amazing.

Years ago, John and I made a list of 50 things we want to do before we die. Although there were nobler ambitions on my list, 'making cheese" is one of the few that seems to have endured. I've made ricotta and paneer. I've visited a dairy in Vermont and watched how cheddar was made. So "Pamigiano-Regianno" was a must for this cheese lover.

After getting terribly lost, we managed to find the dairy a half hour later and still keep our marriage intact. When I got out of the car, Simona greeted us. By the end of the tour I had such admiration and respect for her. She was passionate about this cheese and her passion came from a rich background of cheese-making. Her great grandfather was making Parmigiano-Regianno in the 1940s.

When we walked into the first room the sweetish sourish smell of milk was in the air. The air was moist with evaporation from the vats of curds and whey.
I learned so much about the process and the many stages the cheese has to go through. It starts as just milk with the cream removed and heated slowly with rennet until the curd separates from the whey. We gazed into these cone shaped vats and suddenly this giant 90 kilogram cheese ball is hoisted up to the surface, cut in two and pulled out of the whey in cheese-cloth.

Simona explained all of the strict regulations involved in making this cheese and how important it is for each wheel of cheese to be inspected and to pass inspection. We visited the room where the wheels soak in sea salt for months. We saw how the wheels are dried and maintained for up to three years in this gigantic drying room. Each wheel is turned and wiped of the moisture that comes to the surface.

I learned that you can eat the rind and you can used the rind to improve soup stock. I learned that this cheese can help to cure lactose intolerance and helps with digestion.
Most importantly I learned that Simona loved to experience cheese making as much as I did. I probably shouldn't have referred to her as my soul mate in front of John and Sally.

Lost Soul in Florence

Blog Jan 9

Today was a frustrating day. Why can't Italians be as greedy as Americans? We had planned to go to the Uffize for our last day in Florence. After the escapades of yesterday and nearly missing David, I was feeling confident, cocky even.

Of course none of us had slept the night before because of the crazy insomnia virus that has been going around. But we were bound and determined to see the great Renaissance art that the Medici family had managed to gather and save in their offices, The Uffize.

Wellllllll, we arrived at the museum, still looking all around for the entrance when we came upon a very kind guard who was more than willing to explain that the Uffize was CLOSED on Mondays. GRRRR.

Dejected, I just wandered around with my family looking for any exciting piece of history we could find. Gelato can have great historical meaning? We settled for the beautiful doors on the Duomo that were expertly designed with stories from, yep, that's right, the Bible.

Overall it was a troubling day. We were all a bit lost, cloudy and I was feeling like a bit of a failure, even as a tourist. Afterall, tourists are forgiven a whole host of sins. We are allowed to ask questions that bore the pants off the locals. Is this cheese from a goat or a cow? What kind of olives are these? Are they baby olives? Why are they green? Can I taste more than one kind of gelato?

The day turned around when Jake and I decided to go out for a drink before we settled in for our own homemade Italian meal of ravioli and pesto bought at the San Ambrogio market earlier in the day.

We found a lovely little spot, parked ourselves at the bar and had delicious limoncello and basil martinis. The bartender was charming and he spoke great English, which was a treat in this world of foreign languages. We had great conversation and more importantly, the atmosphere was pulsing with real local Italian energy. The bartender seemed authentically friendly and happy to chat with us, not tolerant, but friendly. We sipped our delicious drinks and I was just starting to feel human again when Jake pointed out the name of the bar, "The Soul Kitchen". Perfetto.

All for the Sake of Great Art

I am so tired of INSOMNIA. The past three nights have been a twisting and turning and listening to the revelers outside singing MAMA MIA over and over again. I haven't been alone with this condition. Both Jake and Sally were up all night last night also. I don't know what the hell it is. At first I thought it was the expresso, but I only had one cup yesterday and I was still up all night. I'd like to say it was just jet lag, but that seems like a long time ago. Maybe it's just the reality of being in a different place with lots of new sounds and sights and stuff. Our little apartmento was built in the fourteenth century and the windows are more like wooden doors. I imagine the alley outside my window has had quite a few drunken lovers laughing and carrying on. I imagined myself throwing a bucket of water on them and swearing in Italian, "shut uppa your moutha", but my twenty first sensibility held me back.
Florence on a Saturday night is definitely a "happening" place.

After the horrible insomniacal night I had, I found myself waking, yes, those first waking moments occured at 11:30. Now, my first waking moments are not the moments that I can think clearly or act quickly, so it wasn't until 12:30 that I actually figured out that the Accademie Museum, the house of DAVID, the one thing I wanted to see before I left Florence, closed at 2 PM AND it was closed on Mondays, which was tomorrow AND our last day in Florence.
The thought of leaving Florence and not visiting the Accademie Museum and seeing David was just not acceptable. I rallied Jake and John to join me and we tried fruitlessly to get Sally to join us. We started off around 1:15 and as we wandered through the tiny little stone streets of Florence, looking for Piazza San Marco, where the museum looked like it was supposed to be according to our silly damn tourist map that had oversized pictures and distances that seemed to vary with each new turn. At about 1:40 I finally asked a woman where the Piazza San Marco was. She proceeded to give me a very long description in Italian of how to take the bus to San Marco. I wanted to tell her that I would prefer to run or fly through the streets to get to the museum on time.

Well, at last, at 1:51 we were in the Piazza San Marco. There we saw the three large buildings that unfortunately all looked the same and were clearly CLOSED. I was so devastated. I wanted to get mad, but there was no one to blame but myself, (although the noisy drunk revelers from the night before would have been nice in that moment to get my hands on). No, we had tried and lost. David was not to be seen. I could only have the shallow memory that I saw the copy outside in the Piazza dell Signoria.

So, forlorn to the point of tears (yes, it's true) I followed my friends out of the Piazza in search of food. As we wandered, I noticed a modest doorway on the back of the Accademi Museum. As I got closer I discovered it was the entrance to the museum and it was OPEN. I went in thinking that I had less than half an hour to see all the art in this famous museum. As we entered, I asked the woman what time the museum closed. She said it closed around 5:50. I WAS WRONG! Hallelujah. I grabbed the woman and hugged her (yes, it's true) and she was clearly delighted that she had given me so much joy with such a simple answer.

Sooo. We wandered around the museum and it was so amazing. I fell in love with David (especially his ass). He was huge and so detailed. The veins on his hands and feet were so real. He was so at ease and peaceful. I felt so fortunate to see this work of art in person and it was just amazing to think that he was carved out of a gigantic piece of marble. I'm sorry for all the hyperbole, but I don't know how to say it more poetically. I guess you just had to be there... and thanks to poor reckoning on my part.. I was.

Now there was lots more beautiful art and the renaissance painters really knew how to render their bible stories beautifully. It made me wonder what our dramatic stories are and how we will tell them to the world in a future century. I actually said to John at one point in the journey, I think I love this art more than I love food. He was shocked.

My silly lapse into renaissance adoration was quickly tempered with another amazing work of art, LAMBREDOTTO. This delicious, quiet morsel of salty, juicy wonderfulness is made with the boiled fourth stomach of a cow. The bread roll is dipped in its juices and it's all topped with a little salsa verde. It was delicious and I think the woman who served me admired the courage of this American tourist to try it. John and I shared the sandwich and a porchetta (which is roast pork on a panini roll). After the first bite, I didn't want to share any more, but the inner peace I had achieved looking at David allowed me to be more magnanimous than usual.

I ended the day with a ladies night with Sal. We did a little shopping, had dinner together and wandered home satisfied with gelato and nutella covered waffles. A most fortunate day I must insist.

Jake took a lovely photo of this great work of art and I have shared it with the world.

Coffee, Caffe or Cocaine

My last blog entry ranted about coffee. Here is the ocular evidence compliments of Jake, our personal paparazzi...or is that paparazzo.

Finally Florence

We woke up this morning and rushed out of our Roman flat, dragging suitcases, backpacks and other large, cumbersome objects. Sal complains about using public transportation when she comes home from school for a long stay. I used to accuse her of over reacting, but I totally get it now.
By the time we made our train, I was spent, exhausted, hungry and afraid that John, who had raced off to find coffee, may not return in time for lift off...or worse, he may not return with COFFEE.
For the past three nights, I have had horrible insomnia. I attributed it to jet lag, but Sal astutely pointed out that having three espresso in an afternoon is more influential than three cups of good old American coffee. Jake equates Italian coffee to cocaine humorously, but I think there is some truth to the analogy.
Anyway. Traveling is the hardest art of travel. Once we arrived and settled into our new Florentine flat, the grumpy moods evaporated into the energized Florence air, and we were off again.

Hello Trevi Fountain

We spent much of the day wandering around Piazza Borghese, but didn't manage to find the museum we had set out to find. Feeling a little lost and disappointed, I sat down with the map and discovered that we were very near to the Trevi Fountain.

This is an important place, not because of its historical significance, but because it was where my god daughter was proposed to. As I watched the crowds posing with their loved ones in front of this tremendous sculpture, I imagined Christina and Sam having their own tremendous moment together. The cool rush of the water and loud energy of its movement through the square made this a pretty dramatic place. I can see why Sam would have chosen it.

To honor the soon to be wed couple, we ate dinner at a lovely little restaurant called "La Cucina Romana". After I settled into the restaurant, wondering if it might be the same place that Sam and Christina might have eaten. (I seem to recall a conversation with Christina with the word "Cucina" in it) I realized that most of the restaurants in the area had some version of Roman Kitchen in their signage and it could easily have been any of the other restaurants.

But I did eat Tripe for the first time in my life. Very interesting texture. Chewy. Reminded me flavorwise of the Myeritsa (lamb gut soup) that we ate at Easter when I was growing up.

John had Osso Buco which has a lovely name and was also triggered by his childhood memories of watching his dad order it in Italian restaurants.

We wandered home and I resolved that the wandering was truly worthwhile and rewarding.

To Market, to Market, to Be a Fat Pig

Everywhere I go I see something interesting to eat. We went to one market this morning and it was an amazing assortment of candy and sweetened fruit. The amount of fruit was tremendous. I got a tiny portion of maybe one fifth of the selections and I filled up a bag half full. Apricots, limes, pineapple, pomelo (whatever that is). I've been trying a nibble of something in the bag whenever I get a sweet urge...

Later in the morning we went to this open market that had the real deal. It was filled with authentic Italians selling fish, meats, breads, vegetables and, of course, pastries. John and I wandered around gathering an assortment of cured meats, Gorgonzola cheese, sourdough bread, amazingly ripe tomatoes, clementines and greens that we couldn't recognize, they looked delicious, so we got some.

We also got some prosciutto sliced right off the leg of the pig. The butcher was charming and really friendly.

Our market adventure ended with a lunch spread in our groovy Roman apartment. The olives were so good. They were infused with fresh orange rinds and weren't as briny as the kalamata olives I'm used to.
I felt like Andrew Zimmern trying out this delicious dried salami.
The lesson of the day was LEARN SOME ITALIAN. I downloaded an Italian word app for my iphone and John and I have been practicing with Italian 101 on Youtube. My favorite words are cosa consiglia (what do you recommend)!!

First Day in Rome

Airplanes are a terrible way to travel. Eight hours of being squished between two people. Squirming for just a glimmer of comfort. Years ago I experienced what the captain called "moderate turbulence" and I had an epiphany that it was not logical to travel thousands of feet in the air in pretty much the equivalent of a tin can; After that episode, I didn't fly for years. But I realized recently that life is too short to be afraid of flying (even if flying might make it shorter). Add the creepy chicken and rice airplane food and...

But enough of that rant. We revived and, while Jake and Sally, slept through their jet lag, John and I rallied. We strolled out into the Piazza and found a friendly little restaurant called, Trattoria al Vaticano. It was one of the few restaurants ready to serve a couple of Americans dinner at 7 PM.
It was so cool. The owner didn't speak any English and the only Italian words I knew were Grazie, Ciao and arrevidierci. We ordered two great pastas and he brought us this amazing EGGLESS omelet for an appetizer. I had buccatini ala amaticiana and John had "little pens on fire". As you can see from the photo. I enjoyed it.
I think of my life at home and this one and I'm so grateful to have this adventure.
And now for a restful sleep enhanced by Italian wine and horrible airplane jet lag.
Ciao Friends and Family.