My Life Is Too Ridiculous Not To Blog, Part 2

Once again, folks, I had defeated the cynics. To all those Negative Nancys, who thought I could never make it to a train station on time, in any country, I had proudly proclaimed: Yes, We Can. I had left my apartment a full hour early for a 30 minute journey, accounting for traffic and other possible delays, just like a real live grown-up. I had boarded the proper metro line, and pulled into New Delhi Station with 20 minutes to go before my train for Ahmedabad was bound to depart. It was 8:35pm. Nice work, Callie.

There was only one problem. When I entered the terminal, I pulled out my ticket confirmation, which I had responsibly remembered to print in my office earlier that day—my train was not listed on the station bulletin!

I double checked the bulletin at the other end of the terminal. The necessary information was nowhere to be found. I stood dumbfounded, watching as the train listings scrolled across the screen. 8:38. I looked down at my confirmation, up at the board, down, and up, and down, and up, unable to ascertain why there was not even the slightest mention of a delay or cancellation. Come on, India, you can do it, I prayed under my breath, hoping that I had just missed it, and that the listing for the 8:55 for Ahmedabad would pop up on the screen any minute. Alas. It would not. 8:42.

I tried to go to the “Queries” counter, but… In the capital of the second-largest country in the world, they could only find TWO people to staff it. So there were lines of literally scores of men (yes, all men), waiting behind the two open windows to ask a question or make a booking. 8:47. Come on, India, I muttered, with more frustration than hope.

You’re probably wondering why I didn’t just listen to the announcements. Surely they would have mentioned a train that was scheduled to depart in less than ten minutes. 8:49. Actually, in five minutes. Maybe they were making an announcement at that very second! Too bad one of the ‘Queries’ guys was ALSO making announcements over the PA system SIMULTANEOUSLY— the result obviously being that both were completely unintelligible. 8:50.

Desperate, I started asking people around me for help. They looked down at my paper and then up at the big screen. I told them that it wasn’t listed on the big screen. They looked down again, up, down, and up. Useless. 8:52. I ripped my ticket away from them and scurried away, my luggage awkwardly wobbling behind me as I swerved around the swarms of men under the loudspeakers.

The clock was ticking. My heart was racing. And I still had no idea where to go, with only minutes before my train. 8:53. Then, like a ray of sunshine through a day of clouds, I thought I heard it. Ahmedabad. The strangely melodious and robotic voice of the announcer, through all the shuffle and hubbub of the station, “Eyk”—Platform One. She was speaking in Hindi, and the queries guy was still going strong, so I couldn’t be entirely sure, but there was no time to waste—I had to take the chance. 8:54.

I slammed the rolling handle down into the suitcase, lifted it onto my hip, and started to run through the station, jumping up the steps and sprinting across platforms, 16, 15, 14… elbowing past porters carrying giant sacks of rice, barefoot Hindu pilgrims and Mumbai business men, women with entire suitcases on their heads—8:55!! Time was out, but I was only 4 platforms away. Platform 4, 3, 2…

I kept sprinting, rolling my little red maleta as fast as it would roll, and as I turned to jump down the stairs, I saw that the train was already pulling away. NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!! I actually did scream this time. Everyone was already staring at me, so why not? I kept running down the stairs, my suitcase banging angrily against my thigh, and saw a conductor hanging out the door of the train only a few yards away. I sprinted towards him shouting “Help dijiye, wait kijiye!” in classic Delhi Hinglish, and passed him my suitcase as the train gathered speed, then jumped onto the train as it sped out of the station!

My adventure was successfully underway. Gujarat, Ho!

The End.

My Life Is Too Ridiculous Not To Blog, Part 1

Let’s begin with the reason I haven’t been blogging: I have been SO busy that I haven’t even had time to procrastinate (and since procrastination is the major force behind everything I write...). Anyone who has seen me divide my frisbee team into our destined Hogwarts houses the night before a final exam (and thus knows my extraordinary powers of doing non-urgent things at extremely urgent times), knows that this means I am really, really busy. If I am too busy to blog, it means I am nearly too busy to gchat. And that would just be ridiculous, people.

So, the reason I have been so busy? An untimely combination of work deadlines and the dreaded GRE—a rather unpleasant blast from the past, for which I have forced myself to revisit those ugly brothers, The Princeton Review and Kaplan, for assistance in my quest to go to grad school. (Which grad school, exactly, is still up for debate—and I welcome your trenchant (GRE word!) comments on the subject, so please feel free to send some great advice my way. ANYWAY..).

I spent the past three weeks basically wavering back and forth between the decision to take and or not to take the darn exam, for which I thought I had started studying well in advance. It turned out that by Indian standards, I was WAYYY behind track, leading to a great deal of unnecessary anxiety and indecision. You see, two girls in my office had recently set their date for the GRE—and proceeded to take the following TWO MONTHS OFF FROM WORK in order to prepare. Another friend at work had been studying 4 hours a day for his GMAT. And one of my closest friends had been studying pretty diligently since we arrived in Delhi in September.

I felt very confused about how much studying was required to succeed.

In any case, I decided to go for the gold, and set myself to work, reviewing vocab, dissecting right triangles, and poring over practice tests in the weeks leading up to the exam, and somehow magically managed to score perfectly on the final practice test I took the night before my actual GRE-- an auspicious sign indeed! Needless to say, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. I went to bed exactly on schedule, woke up exactly on schedule, and took off exactly on time for Gurgaon, a 1.5-2 hour journey from my house, to get to the centre well before my exam.

My auto-rickshaw pulled into the parking lot exactly an hour before my GRE was supposed to start, and a broad smile spread across my face. I couldn’t help reminiscing about my former self, who, at St. Paul’s, had to sprint full speed from the dining hall to the gym in order to get to the SAT on time. I was really growing up. An hour ahead?! This was unprecedented.

I walked down the stairs, found the centre, and asked to sign in. And this was when it hit me.

“Your photo identification, madame?”

I had forgotten my passport in Delhi.

2 long rickshaw rides and an hour-long metro ride away.

“Noooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!” My cries would have rung through the basement halls of the Prometric Testing Centre, but for the presence of 20-30 test-takers, who had competently remembered their photo identification when they embarked on this all-important venture. I was forced to bear my frustration, fury, and tendency toward emotional melt-downs in silence.

Luckily, the guy took pity on me… and happened to have an open slot at the evening testing time. So I ran back up to the road, took another 30 minute rickshaw back to the metro station, 1 more hour on the metro, 10 minutes rickshaw-ing to my house, ran up the stairs, got my passport, and did the reverse back to the testing centre in Gurgaon. If you can imagine going from the Bronx to Long Island, then realizing you didn’t have your passport, going back to the Bronx and then back to Long Island again, and then taking an expensive and fairly important 4 hour standardized test, well, that’s pretty much how it was.

I finally got back to the test centre 3 hours later, sat down, and took my GRE…. And beat my goal score by 60 points! Hooray! I’m not sure if the scores they show on the screen are completely accurate (since they’re technically inofficial), but in any case, I’m very relieved and excited to be done with standardized testing for A WHILE. Maybe forever. Wooooo!

The End. Until Part 2.

Diseased, But We Keep On Truckin'!

Dearest friends, family, and vague-acquaintance-blog-stalkers,

Indeed, it has been a trying few weeks. What with the unceasing monsoons; the eternal brokerage and leasing wars; and an disasterous attack of conjunctivitis- fever- subconjunctival-hemmorhaging (that is, me looking horrifically bloodshot and zombie-like, but-- DON'T WORRY-- in no real danger, according to mayoclinic.com), I am convinced that Delhi is testing me. CAN I HANDLE IT?

I guess so. Though I have yelled at more rickshaw drivers in the past two days (VIDESHI KA F*CKING PRICE NAHI CHAHYIE-- which roughly translates as 'I don't want your goddamn jacked-up white girl price!') than in the last month altogether. I have also watched a lot of The Office. Coping mechanisms, folks.

The Good News:

1. I have moved into an apartment!:

I am still feeling kind of ambivalent about living with foreigners, since normally I try to go all in for cultural immersion, etc. But since I'm living with a French guy (and thus get to practice my French A LOT), I think it will be a cool complement to my fully-Indian work environment. And I really like the flatmates and the beautiful flat.

As they say here, it's a 'very posh locality'. That basically means, quiet, green streets and lovely balconies-- a nice retreat from the Delhi madness. [For those of who you have been following the Commonwealth Games debacle (that is, those of you who read this article: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/22/world/asia/22india.html) know that Delhi is a massive shitshow (in many respects... see my facebook photo for one example) and is making an international embarrassment of itself by trying to host a sports competition half the world hadn't heard of until they read about the rampant corruption among Games officials and lack of hygiene in the athletes' dorms.]

So, the point is, I'm going expat-style for now. It has been really, really stressful finding a place, but I think it will be worth it now that I'm getting settled.

2. I am so important!:

I am going on a business trip! I find this spectacularly amusing. Luckily, my trusty fictional secretary Buster is on hand to manage the details, since otherwise, I would find it rather hard to stomach that today at 1:45pm it was decided that I would take a 7am flight to Mumbai/Bombay tomorrow for all day meetings Thurs-Fri. I am going to stay in Mumbai through the weekend to see a few sights and meet Jessie/Eliza's family, hopefully.

3. I can speak with an Indian accent fluently!:

This is not Hindi, of course; but helps immensely with my communication. I have also started to bobble my head more than a bobble head doll. (Subliminal messaging: You can only *hear* this Indian accent (which is basically unshakeable) and *see* this head-bobbling if you SKYPE me!) The Hindi is getting there too.

THE BAD NEWS:

1. Conjunctivitis
2. High Fever and Headache
3. Subconjunctival Hemmorhaging

Despite the strong suspicion that Roz Chast has rubber-erased my original subconscious and replaced it with hypochondriacal cartoons, I am actually recovering just fine and am thanking my stars that I don't have Dengue Fever....

YET.

With love!,
Cal

PS Jonas is busy undercover on a top secret mission. I have spoken with Buster and he assures me that she is busy with undisclosed, high-security, confidential operations but will be reporting back soon with news for us pleebs. Post is in transit somewhere or other, but meta-blogging will commence soon, hopefully with a mixed-up meta-top-ten list of her favorite Mixed-Up Files.

PPS The latest installation of pictures!!!: CHANDIGARH.



My favorite tourist site in India was actually this incredible sculpture garden called the Nek Chand Rock Garden. This guy stayed up half the night for 20 years making thousands of small sculptures with found objects and creating an incredible garden with waterfalls, fake concrete trees, and thousands of people made out of broken bracelets, car parts, etc. Chandigarh, Punjab.



Nek Chand Rock Garden. Chandigarh.



Lizard. Nek Chand Rock Garden. Chandigarh.




Jonas (Virginia) at one of her favorite sites-- the major government buildings designed by the famous French architect, Le Corbusier. Chandigarh was actually a totally planned city, designed to replace Lahore when it became part of Pakistan and the Indian part of the Punjab was without a capital city. Though 2 Americans were originally hired to design the uber-modern city, one died in a tragic plane crash and the other resigned, so Le Corbusier took up the job. It's a lot calmer than the cities down 'on the plains' (like Agra and Varanasi), but sort of dull and ugly too, if you ask me... A lot of concrete.



More of Le Corbusier's work. Chandigarh.



In person, I thought these buildings were all pretty ugly, but I think these pictures bring out how unique they actually are. To be clear, Jonas took all of these. Or maybe Buster-- the mad secretarial genius! Chandigarh.



Last architecture picture. Pretty sweet. Excellent work by Buster, as usual.



For Cool-E!

Putting Roots Down in Delhi

Jonas (VA) and I arrived in Delhi about a week and a half ago. I have started work at Pratham and I am having a great time-- I really like my coworkers, and I have the company of another 'new kid', Shayak, at the Pratham apartment. So we've been having a great time, cooking (for realzies! okra and rice and other veggies! legit meals. we're pretty proud ;) ) and hanging out, aaaand I've started going to frisbee! Frisbee here is pretty casual and non-competitive, but it's still frisbee, so I'm simply glad and grateful that it exists-- and it turns out that my old friend Rohan from SPS is only a few minutes away! So in only a week, this unfamiliar city is already starting to feel like a home.

I have found a really nice apartment, and I should be moving in with my 3 flatmates-- 2 Italians (a guy and a girl) and a French guy-- in the next few days, so it will be a very international and multilingual (Spanish, French, Italian, and English!) household, which of course I'm really excited for-- a chance to learn Italian and practice the others! Pictures of that will come after we've settled in and decorated.

For now, more pictures of the Jonas and Cal Adventure!


No pickles allowed on the plane to Varanasi. Domestic Airport in Delhi.


Ganesh graffiti. Spray painting of the Hindu god. Varanasi.


Woman choosing flowers to bring to the temple in Varanasi for the festival-- there were thousands of pilgrims walking barefoot through the streets to visit the holy river Ganga (known in the west as the Ganges).


Women leaving a temple on one of the ghats, or steps, down to the river Ganga. Varanasi.


Hindu worshipers bathing in the Ganga. Varanasi.


A really chill looking pilgrim. Varanasi.


Development in action. Varanasi.


Jonas and Cal at the Taj Mahal! Agra.


The Taj up close. Incredible. Agra.


Token monkey picture! I love monkeys!!! Outside the Jama Masjid Temple. Agra.

Enough for now. I miss you all! And a special shout-out to my darling Jonas, who left me a week ago today! Alas. She is soon to start posting from her new location in the capital of that fine country, the United States of America: Washington, DC! Also coming soon, a meta-blog from Jackie "Post" Thompson. Keep your eyes peeled for the latest!

picture picture pictureeee

Akelapaan Strikes: The Lonely Blogger, First Day Solita

Jonas has left me! After bursting into tears when she got into a rickshaw and disappeared into the smoggy night, I have been non-stop busy looking at apartments all day yesterday, and with my first day of work today, so it wasn't until dinner yesterday that I even got a chance to sit down and reflect on what it will mean to be here sola.

But first, the last two weeks, which we have been remiss in documenting!

We were in Shimla for days, pondering our next move and resting weary bones (and stomachs), but the hard rain kept a-fallin'. The roads up in Himachal Pradesh (the mountains) were pretty dubious seeming with the monsoon hitting hard, and after a few articles describing bus accidents in the region, Tanq and I decided to reroute southward.

The next trial in transit was lack of a guide. You see, in our quest for the smallest backpacks this side of Lonely Planet, we cut up our books, carrying only the paper-clipped sections we'd planned to travel to. And since we had planned to stay in Himachal for the duration of the trip, the Rajasthan chapter was sitting in the bottom of a suitcase in the back of a Pratham office closet in Delhi! But we couldn't let this stop us, of course, so Rajasthan, ho! Off we went.

As luck would have it, we spotted two Chinese college girls just as we stepped off the train in Jaipur, and so we adopted them as our traveling partners for the following 1-2 days. Saw some sites, shopped some shops, the usual.

Next, to Udaipur on an overnight train, in which Jonas got trampled by at least thirty people, climbing past her to get out of the train as it stopped at various stations all through the hot Rajasthani night. We arrived in Udaipur at 6am, so we went straight to the river-side cafe of our hostel, where we met 2 other travelers- Jimmy, a Chinese guy with literally perfect English, and James, a British med school student who had traveled all over the place. We spent the next 2 days hanging with them, being very diligent tourists: the first day, we saw two temples, the City Palace, James Bond Octopussy (which was filmed in Udaipur), AND a culture and dance show! Impressive. We know. The next day, we did some final shopping and took a boat ride around Lake Pichola, then boarded our final overnight train back to Delhi.

The past few days have been filled with apartment shopping and other errands. We had a victory over the scam artists of Delhi's rickshaw system, in which the rickshaw-walla (as usual), claimed that his meter no longer worked. We bargained a price, got into the rickshaw, and figured out that the darn thing worked perfectly fine-- so needless to say, we caused the maximum stir upon arrival at our destination to guilt the rascal into admitting his LIES and TRICKERY and allowing us to pay the proper price!

And now, what you've all been waiting for... PICTURES!!!!

Monkey + Rain ATTACK!!!!!

Part 1:

Attacked in the Lair of Lord Hanuman:

In the mountain town of Shimla (Queen of Hills; Hill of Queens), we ascend a steep path towards the famous Jakhu Temple, dedicated to the Hindu monkey deity, Hanuman. As we approach, a wise woman and her daughter advise us to hide our belongings: her glasses have been snatched away by a devious monkey!

We trek on, Virginia blind (having stashed her glasses away) and Callie shrieking in terror, as hoards of monkeys surround us on all sides, scratching their bellies in nearby trees, swinging over temple gates and darting up the path towards the temple.

Summary: we survive, but not without the help of several locals and a stick which we are forced to pay to rent for the fifteen minutes we visit the temple.

Part 2:

Drenched! A Three-Fold Story of Rain and the Quest for a Waterfall:

We befriend two lovely Israeli women as we head westward from Shimla on a drizzly Saturday morning. The rain begins to fall more heavily, but after an hour of walking, we are sure that we are near the famous Chadwick Falls.

Signage disappears, and we are forced to ask locals (in Hindi) for directions. No one seems to agree.

We follow a loquacious lady down a steep, rocky path (still raining), hoping that she knows best the way to the waterfall.

Rain pours on our heads, and we seek shelter with local boys under an old concrete overhang in the middle of the hills. Finally, the water relents and we continue.

Again, downpour. We enter a small school and befriend the teachers on their lunch hour. Then, onward!

But only moments later, MORE RAIN. We hang with the only shopkeeper for miles and his teenage son. We drink tea. Finally, finally, the rain relents (sort of) and we get to see the waterfalls.

Which are pretty cool. But cumulative volume of water that had fallen on our heads was probably greater than that of the 90 foot falls. And we got a taxi back-- the true victory.

NEXT STEPS: To try to avoid rain, we are rerouting to Jaipur and Rajasthan! Southward tomorrow!

Trials in Transit 2.0: Trains, Rains, and Traffic Jams

Part I. Bureaucracy

We last left you wondering, would Callie get her visa registered, having left the visa itself well-stashed in Hotel Star Paradise on her first attempt. No.

After a slow start, we climbed into an auto-rickshaw and slowly made our way across town to the Indian Foreigners Registration Office. One hour later, we exit the rickshaw. VA pulls out her reading material; Callie begins The Long Wait.

Another hour later, she meets a pair of African students, who seem more savvy in the ways of the IFRO, and begin to list the items needed for registration. Having been given NO information at the NY visa office, Callie assumes this is specific to their student visas. And keeps waiting.

Another hour later... the line budges slowly forward. Outside, Jonas tries to explain to the still-waiting rickshaw-walla that he really should leave; six Indian men gather round to help translate, but it quickly becomes apparent that none of them speak English. Translation fails, but the rickshaw-walla disappears shortly thereafter.

Another hour later, Callie arrives at the front of the line with her visa and employment certification in hand. The sour-looking bureaucrat quickly waves his hand, determining that she has none of the TWELVE documents required, and pulls out a ripped slip of paper listing them, then sends her on her way.

Alas, Callie will not be registered until after the 14 day grace period. But since they seem to be in no rush to process things around that horrible, horrible office, we're not too concerned.

Part II. Missed Trains and Chai

We miss our train to Chandigarh. Shit.

We enter the calmest office we see. We are ignored. We are finally acknowledged. We are escorted to another office, buried deep in the train station. We speak Hindi. We are laughed at. We laugh. We laugh a lot. We make friends with the kind Hindi-only workers of the railway bureaucracy. We are offered chai. We accept. We watch the man fold many papers. Many papers. We ask for the ticket office. We are laughed at again-- we come to understand that we are in the ticket office. We wait. We are asked if we are planning on eating dinner. We ask about our ticket. We are told that it is not the ticket office. It has been 1 hour. We leave to seek new tickets in the elusive ticket office of the New Delhi Railway Station.

Number of Indians we asked for help in the train station: 14

Number of laps walked/run from Track 1 to 16 and back: 7

Number of hours spent in the train station: 3

Percentage of our party eligible for tickets sold in the tourist office: 50%

Percentage of groundspace covered with sleeping people: 70%

Hours until next available train: 18

We wait again.

Part III: Bagged Salads in the Season of Monsoon

Enjoying an extended lunch in a back-alley restaurant with Jackie Chan's Rush Hour in the background, we realize: the time is approaching. We must leave for our train. But alas, we have ordered more food and it is yet to come. The waiter assures us that it will be right out, and so we wait anxiously, preparing our bags for the race to the station. Callie's salad arrives, and her traditional manner of eating (read: slow) will have her missing another train. Virginia suggests that she ziploc her salad and donate her tea to a neighboring table, as onlookers laugh at the spectacle-- Virginia barking out minutes as Callie cuts bites of onion until Virginia forces the plastic bag into her hand.

We depart, to find that the great subcontinental rainclouds have opened and monsoon season is upon us. We are deep in the heart of Paharganj, a ramshackle neighborhood of failed construction: the streets are half filled with piles of brick and more potholes than road in the rest. We climb over the brick piles, trying to avoid the knee-high pools of water, finally reaching the station, absolutely soaked.

But... we make the train!

The End.

Epilogue: We now find ourselves in the calm haven of Chandigarh, a planned city of wide leafy avenues and Le Corbusier's concrete creations. Onward to the mountains for the next two weeks.

With love,
Cal and VA

I Told Tanq I Would Be Back at the Hotel 15 Minutes Ago

Yetunde here-- Tanqueray retired to the delightfully high-pressured shower of our hotel, aptly named hotel star paradise, which is, more specifically, a paradise for the backpackers of Paharganj who are ready to RAGE, as the keys to our room come complete with a beer-bottle opener, and the proprietor of the hotel was literally rolling a joint as we signed in last night. Not kidding. Alas, we are busy busy people, and certainly without our secretary Buster to manage our affairs, we have no time to spare for such indulgences.

Indeed, this important business includes today's trip to Safdarjang Enclave, where my OFFICE is located!! (FYI www.pratham.org is the organization.) The auto rickshaw driver had an abysmal time trying to find the office, including all three of us getting out of the vehicle to physically turn it around (no reverse), but when we got there, it was small (~30 people?) and lovely and everyone seemed really nice.

Also included an attempt to register my employment visa at the American Embassy today (40+ added minutes of rickshaw travel). Too bad I forgot my passport (which has visa within) at the hotel. And even more too bad that I don't have to register at the American Embassy-- I have to register at the Indian Embassy. The things you learn when you make phone calls...

Curious things to note:

- No Americans. In the past week, we've met many travelers from France, Spain, and Korea (among other locations in W Europe) but only 2 Americans total.

- The backs of cars say 'Honk Please'. I will be purchasing earplugs ASAP.

- Clothing here is stunningly beautiful. Duh. Still fully enrolled in the 'Pack Light, Travel Happy' program, but return to Delhi (and life therein) will require the utmost self control to avoid purchasing a completely new wardrobe, replete with saris, salwar kameez (the tunic and loose pants with a scarf), and glorious jewelry. This will be marked in my fellowship budget as 'Cultural Assimilation Expenses.'

Tomorrow we head up to Chandigarh, a planned city designed by Le Corbusier, a major architect that VA is interested in-- should be very cool and a welcome change from Paharganj, the neighborhood we're staying in in Delhi, which is ENTIRELY under construction-- literally the entire 'main bazaar' street is exposed rebar and concrete and piles of brick fill half the street (possibly 65%). After that, up to Himachal Pradesh, the mountains of our destiny, where we will breathe deep breaths of cool, clean air and check out hundreds of tiny roadside buddhist monasteries.

Lots of love,
Cal (and Jones)

Trials in Transit: WE ARRIVE IN INDIA!

Namaste, friends, families, and freedom fighters.

We write to you from the orange cubby holes of Agra's finest internet cafe. The following is an official record of the Jonas and Cal Bharat Traveling Commission of 2010. Specifically, the report from the transportation (time and safety) committee of this high class operation. Chair: Captain V.A. Calkins (to be clear, Jonas is the Official Chair of all committees, save the Communications Committee, which is chaired by the Honorable C.P. Lowenstein).

I. Landing
Upon landing in New Delhi, we pry ourselves out of the high-ceilinged, air-conditioned terminals of the Plane Station, in search of our names on the finely-printed placards of India's most elite and prestigious limousine companies. But alas! Buster, our faithful but scatter-brained secretary, has once again neglected to reserve us car service. We are forced to enter the hot-aired night of New Delhi to make our own way through the darkness. We converse with a seemingly-reasonable gentleman on the subject of taxi fares, only to watch as he is hauled off by the Delhi police, saving us from an unsavoury fate on our first night in the subcontinent. Three cheers for law enforcement!

II. Cycle Rickshaws and Some Troubles with the Letter 'A'
Varanasi was our first stop on the Indian adventure- a major Hindu pilgrimage site, brimming with barefoot worshippers in orange, making their way to the Ganga's (Ganges) holiest points.
a. In search of lodging, we attempt to find the Raj Ghat, one of Varanasi's many platforms on the Ganga's shore. But alas! Our first attempts were thwarted by the tricky tricksters who named another part of the river, several kilometers upstream, the Raja Ghat. A mere syllable difference led us miles astray! In hopes of saving a rupee or two, we had decided to make the journey by cycle rickshaw, which turned into a walking rickshaw when our gouty driver dismounted to push us up a long hill on foot. We entered the local train station at the Raja ghat, quickly realized we were way out of town, and dumped another 50 rupees to land exactly back where we started. Still unclear where the Raj Ghat was actually located.

III. Sparing the Spinal Cord
With a month's journey ahead of us, Captain VA Calkins put forth a mandate: Ye Who Shall Travel Light Shall Travel Happy. Thus, the Honorable CP Lowenstein was forced to relent with her large red hiking backpack and minimize belongings, eventually reducing luggage to a small green daypack and a shrinking plastic tote. We sat proudly in the Varanasi train station for four hours due to delay of train, surrounded by double-backpacked Europeans and triple-suitcased Koreans, knowing full well that our shoulder blades would thank us in the tennis championships of our golden years, distant though they may be (never too early to prepare!).

Executive Summary:

Delhi: Hot, Near-miss.
Varanasi: Cows, Orange, Barefoot, Ganga, Hot, Retrace, Avoided fatal boat capsize, Home Decor Inspiration.
Agra: Marble, Taj Mahal, Muslim, Feet, Persistent Rickshaw-wallas, Hot, Banana Lassi.
The North: Only Time Will Tell!

With love,
Callie and Virginia