tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-130064102024-03-13T23:29:11.835-08:00Mary BellamyMaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831854971366586942noreply@blogger.comBlogger599125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-77218285560140319202013-06-12T10:34:00.000-08:002013-06-12T10:34:57.990-08:00Home project: Laundry pedestals<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When we toured our house, there was a very nice washer/dryer set in the laundry room. They were included in our contract, but on our final walk-through before closing, we noticed they were gone. It turns out that the seller had given them to her daughter and refused to admit that she had said they conveyed. We got a check from her realtor at closing to buy replacement machines. Since I'm a bargain hunter, we ended up with shiny awesome new machines for about half price, thanks to a dent on the washer.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That dent? That saved us about $1,200. I love that dent.</td></tr>
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When you view front-loading washers and dryers in the store, a lot of them are on nifty little pedestals. These pedestals provide storage and also make it MUCH easier to do the laundry. They also cost $250 each. Ouch. Even with our savings, I couldn't justify paying that. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Enter the bargains.</td></tr>
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In May, I came across a pair of laundry pedestals at my favorite home improvement thrift store. After some dealing, the manager and I agreed on $70 for the pair. Because of my obsession with aesthetics, I knew we couldn't pair white drawers with our silvery-gray washer and dryer. Armed with sandpaper and spraypaint, I set out to imrpove them.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matchy-matchy!</td></tr>
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A few hours of sunshine later, I had coated all the visible parts with a near-perfect color match. After letting the paint harden and cure, Beau and I were ready to move them in. I should probably note that Beau had put the washer and dryer in place by himself when we moved in. I should also probably thank him for that, especially in light of what followed.<br />
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Step 1: Remove washer door.<br />
Step 2: Maneuver dryer out of tiny room.<br />
Step 3: Strain back moving washer out of tiny room.<br />
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Once we had the washer drawer in position, all we had to do was put the washer on it. Except once we got the washer into the tiny room, there was not much space for me to squat down and pick up my side. Literally, my back was a few inches from the wall. My yoga practice includes lots of malasana, so we managed.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In. Doesn't fit.</td></tr>
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Once the washer was in place, it became apparent that my measuring had been for naught. The pedestal was wide enough, but it technically was not deep enough. When the washer's back legs were on the pedestal, the front legs were barely resting on the drawer front. <em>No bueno.</em> But Goonies never say die, and I was determined to make these work. We eventually found that we could cut lengths of scrap plywood to provide the necessary support for the back legs.<br />
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With the washer hooked up, we put the dryer pedestal in its spot and tried to figure out how to get the dryer in place and hooked up. You see, we couldn't just have a simple dryer. Oh no, we had to have a fancy steam dryer, and you can't have steam without a water hookup. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not the best time for a claustrophobia attack.</td></tr>
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Our solution? I stood on the dryer pedestal and we lifted the back edge onto the pedestal. Beau supported the front edge with jack stands, while I made the water and exhaust connections behind the machine. Then I had to hoist myself up and out of the space, ending up on top of the washer. To further complicate matters, I had to go back down a few times to fix things. I ended up just chilling on top of the washer for a while.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And scene!</td></tr>
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We will never move these machines again. If we sell them, the buyers must remove. We will paint around them. (And eventually I will paint the plywood to match the machines and pedestals because I have issues.) But I must say, it sure is nice having them washer and dryer elevated. Now if only we could change the washer door so that it didn't open toward the dryer...</div>
Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14635171002350438929noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-76557996127715155852013-05-28T13:54:00.002-08:002013-05-28T13:54:33.146-08:00This is not Mr. Roger's Neighborhood<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When we moved into our new house in the middle of December, I accepted the fact that we likely wouldn't meet the neighbors any time soon. No one spends lots of time hanging out in their yard in the winter, and although we get out to shovel our driveway, I'd rather use that time to shovel and get back inside ASAP. The colder months are just not conducive to making new friends.<br />
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About a month ago, I happened to be standing in the kitchen when a vehicle pulled into our neighbor's carport. Through the windows, the passenger and I made slow, lingering eye contact. Naturally, I freaked out and dropped to my knees, then crawled out of the kitchen. Oh, did I mention I was naked? Eating a banana? Dignity has never been my strong suit.<br />
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Now that summer is here, people are starting to loiter in their yards. Yesterday, Beau and I were enjoying an amazing sunny holiday in our yard when he started talking with those same neighbors. After a few minutes of talking, I realized that our neighbor writes a blog. Actually, it's a reasonably well-followed blog. Crap. I hoped she never blogged about the naked banana lady.<br />
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In other news, we've been making steady progress on some house projects, and my parents are visiting. It took many trains and boats to get them here, because flying is for suckers. The weather gods have rewarded them with 4 four (4!) warm sunny days in a row. This must be a new record for Anchorage.</div>
Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14635171002350438929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-44409991740288636992013-03-10T22:46:00.002-08:002013-03-10T22:53:49.660-08:00It calls me on and on, across the universe<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Although I tried to be vigilant about posting on my latest trip to India, my netbook ran afoul of Indian power fluctuations. The power source died in Rishikesh, leaving us with just my cellphone to connect. No good.<br />
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What was good in Rishikesh, though, was the shopping and massages and, oh yeah, breaking into the Beatles ashram. One of the highlights of the trip, for sure. Before we got to India, I mentioned to Terri that the ashram the Beatles stayed at in the 60s was in Rishikesh. It's been abandoned for some time now, and is slowly decaying back into to woods. It's locked up and no one is allowed to go in, so I suggested that we simply find our way inside. Terri was game, so we set off down the road one day, in search of the Maharishi Mahesh Ashram.<br />
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We were staying by the Laxman Jhula footbridge. After breakfast, we headed down the road toward the Ram Jhula footbridge. The ashram is located on the far side of Ram Jhula, downstream from the bridge.Because it was early in the day, we actually got a bit turned around. We walked past the plaza that leads to the footbridge, and kept on down the road. You want to find your way all the way down by the footbridge and keep going downstream. <br />
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As you continue downstream, you will reach this temple. Keep going past it and down the road.<br />
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Eventually, the road will turn to dirt, and you'll come to a sharp S curve with this yellow gate. Keep going.<br />
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The sign for the Beatles ashram is confirmation that you are headed in the right direction.<br />
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Finally, the road sort of ends at this dry riverbed. The place straight across is occupied, and someone may come out to chat with you. I wouldn't recommend telling them you plan to go in.<br />
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If you turn left and walk up the river bed, you'll find the locked front gates on the right, about where those men and motorcycles are.<br />
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Locked front gate. You won't get in through here.<br />
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Ha! But I wouldn't bring you all this way without getting you inside, too.<br />
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Keep going up the dry riverbed, and you'll see this path off to the right. It's just past the ashram. Go up this path.<br />
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Keep looking to the right, and you'll see these two logs across a little side trail. If they've been put here to keep you out, chances are you want to go in. Climb over these logs and go up the hill.<br />
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Crumbling wall = success!<br />
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The actual ashram photos will have to wait for another day, when I catch up on my backlog of photos and posts. I wanted to get these directions up quickly because a friend has just returned to India for another visit, and may be trying to locate the ashram as well. There are many amazing things to see inside the ashram walls. Tip: As you climb the road inside, you'll start seeing meditation pods on the right. Once you get to the circle past the little guard shack, you'll see many more meditation pods on the right. Those are fun to explore, and have the start of the Beatles graffiti. For most of it, though, you'll want to head to the left from the circle and walk down the road. There are some amazing abandoned buildings there, including the Beatles Cathedral, which is about halfway down the road on the left side.</div>
Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14635171002350438929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-22673796087814028422013-01-11T03:54:00.001-09:002013-01-11T03:54:13.751-09:00Heard on the train<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">It's like gastrointestinal Thunderdome.</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">--Me, not sharing</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">more details</span></i></div>
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Gujurat had the friendliest people of the trip. Too bad Terri and I came down with mild colds in Bhuj, and I seemed to acquire a touch of the Delhi belly in Ahmedabad. I opted to skip the antibiotics and tough it out on the train.<br />
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After our travel companion suffered some transportation woes, Terri and I decided to change our itinerary a bit, and are now in Rishikesh a bit early. It's gotten very white here. There's a Cafe Coffee Day on the far side of Laxman Jhula, and I see more Westerners than Indians. We used to stand out for being white. Now we stand out for not having dreads and wearing hiking boots. I guess we just can't win.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14635171002350438929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-88414753232316414932013-01-03T08:03:00.003-09:002013-01-03T08:03:57.706-09:00Heard in Pushkar<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">No marijuana. Just cake.</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">--Waiter</span></i></div>
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Pushkar is on the backpacker circuit, but I didn't notice this many special lassi shops last time. There's one on every corner. No, I have not partaken. I'm too busy eating Israeli food and dancing. We had a 2-hour khalbeliya dance class today, and will be doing another 2 hours tomorrow. Raki has asked us to come to her village for dinner tomorrow night, and then we must sadly leave Pushkar. Brighton heads home while Terri and I head out to Bhuj.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14635171002350438929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-32849716706700991612013-01-01T06:01:00.000-09:002013-01-01T06:01:16.606-09:00Random notes: Bundi and beyond<ul>
<li>Date and cumin pickle is delicious.</li>
<li>Also delicious: hot ginger/lemon/honey drink</li>
<li>No westerners seem to take the government Bundi-Ajmer bus, judging by the level of stares we got.</li>
<li>A health care worker chatted us up a bit, then gave us her bangles as she got off the bus.</li>
<li>My super-awesome Devanagari skills helped me identify the Kota-Ajmer bus and the Pushkar bus. Score.</li>
<li>This hotel in Pushkar has special lassi. And special juice. Special juice sounds gross.</li>
<li>The last rickshaw in Bundi was playing "Barbie Girl." </li>
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Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14635171002350438929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-20769882409676582822012-12-30T07:57:00.001-09:002012-12-30T07:58:44.616-09:00Beautiful BundiWe made it to Bundi. Not going to lie - sleeper class overnight from Agra was not great. We did get some sleep though, and all survived. The only casualty was Brighton's sleep sack, which apparently got left on the train.<br />
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Bundi is, so far, pretty amazing. We've seen more westerners than we did in Delhi, which is strange. The fabric shops are great, and I've already bought two lengths. I may or may not locate a tailor before we leave. Great restaurants, too, and a very relaxed vibe.<br />
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I also finally bought my first sari of the trip. A green, blue and white one called my name. When I saw the choli piece was green and white polka dots, I was done. Terri has asked me to force her to buy fabric and get a salwar kameez set made before we leave. I guess shopping is my gift. Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14635171002350438929noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-34441500399126947752012-12-28T06:51:00.000-09:002012-12-28T06:51:11.015-09:00Heard in Delhi<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Don't think of it as hazy. <br />Think of it as a built-in Instagram filter.</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">--Me, on Delhi's<br />air quality</span></i></div>
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After an eventful morning, we left Delhi and took a train to Agra. The hotel seems to have gone downhill a bit since my last trip here. Tomorrow we check out, and then I will spend the day lounging around while Terri and Brighton do the tourist thing. I'm not paying to go back to the Taj Mahal. Then it's on to Bundi, via an overnight train. Sleeper class. Um, yay?Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14635171002350438929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-10206650243869589572012-12-27T05:55:00.003-09:002012-12-27T05:55:31.171-09:00Heard in Delhi<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Their spatial dynamics are remarkably complex.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>--Terri, on the skills<br />of autorickshaw drivers</i></span></div>
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Last night I told my husband I hadn't bought any new clothes yet. It wasn't a lie. However, on my way to dinner, I got distracted by a shop and ended up ordering two custom salwar kameez sets. It was a very good deal - less than $20 for custom-made pants, top and scarf. I picked out the two prettiest fabric sets they had.<br />
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After visiting the Red Fort today, we went back to Paharganj to pick them up. They are gorgeous. Brighton ended up ordering a set for herself too. I'm amazed that Terri hasn't decided to join in on the action yet.<br />
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We decided to go to a show called Dances of India tonight. After haggling, we got into an autorickshaw. The driver turned on the radio and started blasting some Bon Jovi. Normally I might be offended at the assumption that I wanted American music, but I couldn't resist singing along with "You Give Love a Bad Name" at the top of my lungs. Sadly, the dance show closed down a year ago, but the rickshaw ride remains a memorable part of the evening. <br />
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Tomorrow we take off for Agra. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that we'll only be there for one night this time.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14635171002350438929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-28574028991286151782012-12-26T00:35:00.001-09:002012-12-26T00:35:44.513-09:00Touchdown: DelhiWe arrived in Paharganj last night. Unlike the last trip, our hotel actually sent a driver, so we could avoid taking a taxi from the airport. Hotel is ... acceptable. Spent the day shopping in the bazaar with Terri and Brighton. I saw a knee-high Ganesh statute. I didn't purchase it, but only because I don't fancy hauling it around India for a month. Lord help us all if I find one in Amritsar on the last leg of our trip.<br />
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A shopkeeper has already informed me that the problem is that I'm too big for pants. Thank you. Thank you very much. I've been restrained in my shopping thus far. Brighton's ATM card won't work, so I'm playing sugar momma for her during the trp, and she can repay me later. We plan to just rotate the water and TP purchases.<br />
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On a sadder note, I was informed today of the suicide of a Fairbanks friend. Rest in peace.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14635171002350438929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-91501116824773922062012-12-23T20:29:00.001-09:002012-12-23T22:06:18.688-09:00The adventure begins again<p dir="ltr">Just in time for the end of my last set of India posts....</p>
<p dir="ltr">It's only 8:30 at night, but I'm getting ready for bed. My friends Terri and Brighton are at my house in Anchorage, also getting ready. Tomorrow morning, we will head to the airport and begin a journey to Minneapolis, Paris and then Delhi. We'll be on the road for 4 weeks, traveling through Rajasthan, Gujarat, Punjab and more.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm excited to be traveling again, excited to return to India, excited for another chance to absorb the country. I'll miss Beau, Nibbles and my bed. And cheeseburgers.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Namaste, bitches. We'll see you in Delhi.</p>
Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14635171002350438929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-44787001909102315102012-12-12T16:39:00.000-09:002012-12-13T22:41:23.527-09:00Zipping around JodhpurWorst title pun ever. You'll see.<br />
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We got ourselves an early morning bus out of Mount Abu, headed to Jodhpur. As previously mentioned, the bus got down the hill a LOT faster than it went up it. Perhaps a bit too fast, as evidenced by the child puking out of the window constantly in front of me. His father kept wiping the puke off his face with the bus curtains. I promptly traded seat with Beau and took the aisle seat. I'm not touching those curtains. What he doesn't know won't hurt him.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KIU78JZafAk/UMrUZdMxLeI/AAAAAAAAAMU/_6RDV32rt0s/s1600/Untitled_Panorama2+copy.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KIU78JZafAk/UMrUZdMxLeI/AAAAAAAAAMU/_6RDV32rt0s/s1600/Untitled_Panorama2+copy.jpg" height="108" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The city view ain't half bad.</td></tr>
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The bus arrived in Jodhpur, pulled to the side of the road and unceremoniously kicked us out. Not at a bus station. Oh, no, that would be too easy. No, we were on the side of the road, with two other white girls (one of whom had actually been bitten by a stranger in Mount Abu. At least I only puked my guts out.). All that whiteness made us look like a giant pile of rupees, and the touts were all over us trying to get us into their rickshaws. Fortunately, our hotel had said they would pick us up, so I called them. Unfortunately, I had no idea where we were. I started walking down the road, trying to describe what I saw, to no avail. Beau and the two girls trailed behind me, with the rickshaw drivers following them. I was the majorette in the world's most demented parade. <br />
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Finally, I came upon a woman selling cigarettes on the side of the road. I marched up to her and handed her my phone, much to her confusion. After some pantomiming, she took the phone and finally told the hotel owner where we were. We sat by the side of the road to await his arrival, and most of the rickshaw drivers gave up. The owner finally pulled up on his motorcycle, which seemed a questionable choice of vehicles for transporting people back to his hotel. It turns out that his plan was to find us and then bargain for some rickshaws. However, the two drivers that were still waiting near us said they had called dibs and refused to be bargained down much. Beau and I squeezed into one rickshaw with one of the girls while the other hopped on the back of the motorcycle. I suspect that her friend was wondering if that would be the last we ever saw of her.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-keVOaxMmopQ/UMrU_vx4GxI/AAAAAAAAAMw/ymq8a4uK8Yg/s1600/DSCN0551.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-keVOaxMmopQ/UMrU_vx4GxI/AAAAAAAAAMw/ymq8a4uK8Yg/s1600/DSCN0551.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He hates this picture.</td></tr>
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We arrived at the haveli and checked into our room, which had a swing. Yes, I chose this place because of the swing. You would have too. Since there was no restaurant, we wandered down to the marketplace to find some food. And this, weeks into the trip, is when we had our first brush with truly sketchy behavior. As we walked down the road, I became aware that there were several men around us who were walking at our exact same pace. I pulled Beau to a stop and immediately began a fake argument with him. It doesn't really matter what you're saying if you're gesticulating wildly and raising your voice, so I may have screamed and poked him in the chest and crossed my arms a lot as I told him what was going on. The group of men had all pulled to a halt by a car a few yards down the road and were waiting, so we carried on for a bit until they gave up and left. We were far more cautious as we proceeded to dinner, and I gawked at all the shiny things in windows on our way back to the hotel.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Rs9BGAwgCjs/UMrUKYlxKsI/AAAAAAAAALQ/T6X1qqQ2yno/s1600/DSCN0552.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Rs9BGAwgCjs/UMrUKYlxKsI/AAAAAAAAALQ/T6X1qqQ2yno/s1600/DSCN0552.JPG" height="170" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hello, fort.</td></tr>
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The next day we took a rickshaw up to the Mehangarh Fort, which towers over Jodhpur.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aD6xbaSzZas/UMrUMtdvc7I/AAAAAAAAALY/SfpNKsUtFkA/s1600/DSCN0565.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aD6xbaSzZas/UMrUMtdvc7I/AAAAAAAAALY/SfpNKsUtFkA/s1600/DSCN0565.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Giant spikes are great elephant deterrent.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0llp3k56BmA/UMrURZ4apsI/AAAAAAAAALk/jAUfNM8B8zU/s1600/DSCN0578.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0llp3k56BmA/UMrURZ4apsI/AAAAAAAAALk/jAUfNM8B8zU/s1600/DSCN0578.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Audio tour, in English. Score.</td></tr>
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<br />
It's got lots of history and all that, but I wanted to go there for one reason: ziplining. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qNvgcotxOxY/UMrUVBfF6MI/AAAAAAAAAME/1iYZgAMoqNU/s1600/DSCN0624.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qNvgcotxOxY/UMrUVBfF6MI/AAAAAAAAAME/1iYZgAMoqNU/s1600/DSCN0624.JPG" height="266" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There I go!</td></tr>
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Who can resist flying through the air? Who can resist flying through the air over a fort in India? Not me!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ei2kVGCyz7k/UMrUWryuEAI/AAAAAAAAAMM/krzz29vecpU/s1600/DSCN0626.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ei2kVGCyz7k/UMrUWryuEAI/AAAAAAAAAMM/krzz29vecpU/s1600/DSCN0626.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Incoming Beau.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2mVqkILFPHM/UMrUUd2lGFI/AAAAAAAAAL8/ouhsFjqQdec/s1600/DSCN0619.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2mVqkILFPHM/UMrUUd2lGFI/AAAAAAAAAL8/ouhsFjqQdec/s1600/DSCN0619.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seems legit.</td></tr>
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It didn't even matter that the zip line seemed to be held together with duct tape.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jF5KHbJcqqM/UMrUXqM1DnI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/_5d1uR2RAqw/s1600/DSCN0632.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jF5KHbJcqqM/UMrUXqM1DnI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/_5d1uR2RAqw/s1600/DSCN0632.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beau, showing excellent tucking form.</td></tr>
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WHEE!!!!!<br />
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After we were done, we headed had a late lunch at the fort and headed back into the city. We had not showered in Mount Abu because of the cold temperatures and open window in the bathroom. We were determined to shower. The hotel had other plans. First, we couldn't get the shower to work. No combination of turning various knobs would get any water to come out. We finally called in help, and the owner's mother shuffled in and spent 10 minutes fiddling with knobs. She got the water working and told us to wait for hot water. It finally arrived, and Beau hopped in for a shower. When he got out, he sadly announced that the water smelled like pee. It was true. I may have wiped myself down with baby wipes after my shower.<br />
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We wandered through the market again so that I could gawk at shiny things. I got drawn into a sari shop and allowed Beau to pick out a banjara sari to purchase. Best of all, I found a fixed-price shops. Items with prices listed on them! No need to haggle! I bought a few items, most notably a set of wrist-to-elbow bangles. I desire to look as peasanty as possible. <br />
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The next morning, we tried to get breakfast in the hotel. We went up to the roof restaurant, which was empty. The owner came up and asked us what we wanted, then brought up a tray. It was pretty obvious that they were just giving us their food. We sat on the roof, at the base of the Mehangarh, eating toast and jam, looking over the blue city, pondering the great mysteries of this country. Like, why do all the cats look so raggedy? Beau said they look like Snake Plissken. That's why I love him, folks.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b9h6_KC_RZc/UMrUZ6bSIJI/AAAAAAAAAMc/Iy1Yrx9YEWU/s1600/Untitled_Panorama3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b9h6_KC_RZc/UMrUZ6bSIJI/AAAAAAAAAMc/Iy1Yrx9YEWU/s1600/Untitled_Panorama3.jpg" height="77" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think this view is worth the $20 spent on an afternoon of zip lines.</td></tr>
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Up next: An Alaska reunion in Pushkar<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FWZC33vK0yo/UMrUO_zwzAI/AAAAAAAAALg/HaaP5aI4L6E/s1600/DSCN0575.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FWZC33vK0yo/UMrUO_zwzAI/AAAAAAAAALg/HaaP5aI4L6E/s1600/DSCN0575.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Because smoking is the worst of your health issues in India.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dwkX50jjzDE/UMrUSJ-C21I/AAAAAAAAALs/bXKvUD8dv4U/s1600/DSCN0601.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dwkX50jjzDE/UMrUSJ-C21I/AAAAAAAAALs/bXKvUD8dv4U/s1600/DSCN0601.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My ego requires at least three pictures of myself per post. Quota met.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VWm3eFLqc50/UMrUTlWFfQI/AAAAAAAAALw/eDFlmhcp6dU/s1600/DSCN0613.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VWm3eFLqc50/UMrUTlWFfQI/AAAAAAAAALw/eDFlmhcp6dU/s1600/DSCN0613.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">India never ceases to amaze with its intricately carved buildings.</td></tr>
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Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14635171002350438929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-74927385696583220692012-12-10T21:58:00.000-09:002012-12-14T08:34:26.455-09:00Extended stay in Mount AbuAfter leaving Udaipur, we hopped on a bus and headed to the hill station of Mount Abu. My dear friend Rachel had recommended this as an excellent place to visit - more popular with Indians than with tourists. Sold! The bus ride there was mostly pleasant until we hit the base of the hill. It's a long, winding road up the hill. It took us more than an hour to get up the hill, yet only about 20 minutes to get back down when we left a few days later. By the time we got to the top of the hill, Beau's stomach was unsettled from the twisting and turning. We arrived at the Shri Ganesh hotel, and I took care of business while he rested. Signing the guest register, I noticed that the people who had checked in right before us were from Fairbanks. Small world!<br />
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Rather than subject Beau to food smells while he was feeling ill, I went to the roof to order lunch. The man sitting at the other table was sporting a Yukon Quest hat, so I rightly assumed that he was from Fairbanks. He and his girlfriend had just arrived to India, so I spent some time writing down some numbers and a few key phrases in Hindi for them. Back in the room, Beau was still ill. I took full advantage to snuggle up to him and steal his body heat all night long. Those hill stations get cold!<br />
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The next day, he was feeling much improved, so we headed out to view the Dilwara Temples, a complex of Jain temples carved out of white marble. They were amazingly beautiful. They banned all photography inside the temples, so you'll just have to take my word for it. Or check it out <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dilwara_Temples" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not the Dilwara Temples.</td></tr>
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On the way back to the hotel, we passed the Brahma Kumaris World Spiritual University. If you're ever in Mount Abu, do stop there. It's like Hinduism, explained in dioramas designed by someone who has enjoyed one too many bhang lassis. After the side trip, we decided to go on a sunset hike. The hotel owner promised it would be easy, even for someone with a knee brace. Perhaps climbing up giant boulders is easy for other people in knee braces, but I found it a bit challenging. After enjoying the view, we headed back down to the hotel, where I checked my e-mail and confirmed that I had a job interview set up via hotel telephone in Jodhpur for the following night. Beau and I retired to the room to enjoy some television.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I liked this guy best.</td></tr>
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Sometime that night, I woke up to a rumbling in my stomach. I tried to find my way to the toilet room, but the light switches didn't seem to be working. I pounded at them in frustration, and Beau said he'd take care of it. Now, I don't want to get too graphic, but when you're traveling in India, you do a constant self-analysis. Is this it? Do I have Delhi belly? Is it just regular diarrhea? Well, I'm happy to report that when you finally have Delhi belly, you KNOW you have Delhi belly. I was still in the tiny toilet room, in the dark, when it became clear that I was going to be sick. There's no way I was going to be sick in that room in the dark. Beau was still trying to figure out the lights when I ripped open the door and came crawling out on my hands and knees, heading for the bucket under the sink. Once my stomach was fully empty, I crawled back to bed while Beau prepared the first of many cups of Alka Selter. When you're traveling, ALWAYS bring Alka Seltzer. It settles your stomach, delivers painkillers and helps to rehydrate you, all in one fell swoop. (Not a paid endorsement, but Bayer should totally get on their game and mail me a box or something.)<br />
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By the next morning, it was obvious that we weren't going anywhere. Beau went to town to find me painkillers, and came back with sweetened lemon juice, salted biscuits and a topped-up sim card for our cell phone. I informed UAF that I would need to do the interview via cell phone, and we setlled into the room for the day. You might think that we were lucky to get sick in one of the few hotels that had a television in the room. You might think that we were even luckier that one station showed a lot of English-language shows. But they only showed Wipeout and Cris Angel: Mindfreak, and I certainly didn't feel lucky after watching back-to-back episodes for a few hours.<br />
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At 11:30 pm, I was coherent enough to answer the cell phone and begin my job interview. We only got cut off once, which seems a bit of a miracle, and then I crawled into bed. Since I'd been sick (and thus a furnace) the second night, Beau had taken advantage of my body heat. This night, we hid under four blankets to stay warm. Being sick has its advantages. We had to get up early for a bus ride in the morning.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D_tusF6S-Ss/UMrNBi-BYfI/AAAAAAAAAKw/6c38EiHmYHA/s1600/DSCN0538.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D_tusF6S-Ss/UMrNBi-BYfI/AAAAAAAAAKw/6c38EiHmYHA/s1600/DSCN0538.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bundle of bones and flesh plus floating red breast = human being.</td></tr>
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Sadly, not many pictures exist from this leg of the trip. We weren't allowed to take photos in the Dilwara Temples, and I may have killed Beau if he took pictures of me huddled in bed, watching Wipeout.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XmOBnGb2SV0/UMrN8kkZ_5I/AAAAAAAAALA/Gu8hs5Uqge0/s1600/DSCN0545.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XmOBnGb2SV0/UMrN8kkZ_5I/AAAAAAAAALA/Gu8hs5Uqge0/s1600/DSCN0545.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have no idea what is going on here.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Next up: Zip lines and sketchy showers in Jodhpur Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14635171002350438929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-39332763099164898332012-12-09T20:10:00.000-09:002012-12-12T23:11:01.342-09:00Udaipur: Sitars, sparkly stones and a monkey attackAfter the trauma of getting out of Agra, we were prepared to be extra-impressed with Udaipur. And boy oh boy, Udaipur did not disappoint. The city is built around a lake and was the setting for much of the James Bond film <i>Octopussy</i>.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SUL3tclqdqg/UMmK00qfYZI/AAAAAAAAAH0/4ymlrsdqG0g/s1600/DSCN0454.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SUL3tclqdqg/UMmK00qfYZI/AAAAAAAAAH0/4ymlrsdqG0g/s1600/DSCN0454.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New Year's Eve view from our balcony. Cue the fireworks.</td></tr>
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<br />
Due to the Gujjar strikes, we arrived on New Year's Eve and found our way to our Dream Heaven Guest House. As the daylight drained from the sky, we settled into an amazing room with a lake view and a balcony. Although our bathrom had two showerheads, I opted to steal the first shower all for myself and washed away the grime of a 20+ hour bus ride. I wandered onto our balcony while Beau showered, and watched with joy as hotels around the lake began setting off fireworks. I called to Beau to hurry up and join me. The complete bliss of being in India, being with the man that I love, watching fireworks light up across a lake...it just all added up to perfection. I wrapped my arms around Beau and started telling him how much I loved him, but all I could think about was my knee. Why was I thinking about my knee at a time like this?<br />
<br />
<br />
Well, I had to figure out which knee to kneel on so I could ask Beau to marry me. And when he said yes (or rather, when he asked, "Does this mean we're really engaged now?"), we celebrated, and then he asked if we needed to buy a ring. That's when I directed him to my neck pillow, and he discovered that I had ordered a ring before we left and been carting it around the whole time.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cnzyOJQGY2o/UMmK5MBkkTI/AAAAAAAAAH8/3Q8FacqquzM/s1600/DSCN0457.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cnzyOJQGY2o/UMmK5MBkkTI/AAAAAAAAAH8/3Q8FacqquzM/s1600/DSCN0457.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Engaged! I ordered a thali for the special occasion.</td></tr>
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<br />
We went up to the rooftop restaurant for dinner. Hotels all around the lake were having parties and competing to blast their music as loudly as possible. This was especially amusing, given that they all seemed to have the same cd with just a few American songs mixed into it. Thus, "I Got A Feeling" by the Black-Eyed Peas was the theme song of the night and has somehow become "our" song. I would have guessed that "My Humps" would have been most likely Black-Eyed Peas song to represent our love, but you can't argue with what the universe throws your way.<br />
<br />
On New Year's Day, we set out on a walk across the lake to wander through the shops. We found a music shop, and since we'd been talking about Indian musical instruments for a while, we decided to look inside quickly just to see if there were any prices marked. The shopkeeper quickly hustled over from across the street and started showing off his wares. Bablu came highly recommended, so I had some trust in the guy to sell quality instruments. Having been engaged for all of 12 hours, I was still developing my psychic connection to Beau. So when Bablu showed us two different sitars, I started trying to set up a mental connection to figure out which one Beau wanted. Duh, of course he wanted the electric sitar. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AdzRgBPMgZg/UMmK9wLFYxI/AAAAAAAAAIE/zS_swgJUGZk/s1600/DSCN0471.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AdzRgBPMgZg/UMmK9wLFYxI/AAAAAAAAAIE/zS_swgJUGZk/s1600/DSCN0471.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Is very good bargain. Good for you, good for me. Very good.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I set to work bargaining, and Bablu whipped out his calculator and started trying to figure out if I was ripping him off. We went from Rs25,000 to Rs20,000, which is good, but not quite good enough for me. Bablu told me that I was his first customer of the year, so he was offering me his very best deal so that he would have good karma all year long. Bam. There was my edge. "First customer, first SALE of the year, very good karma all year long!" With that, we shook hands on Rs19,000 and Beau was the proud owner of an electric sitar, plus a fiberglass carrying case, all the accessories and replacement parts he'd ever need, and a few lessons with Bablu to boot.<br />
<br />
We wandered back across the bridge and decided to check out the cafe next to our hotel for lunch. Dubbed "Soul Meet Cafe," it featured a cushion-covered terrace with numerous lounging backpackers and a sound system that pumped out a constant stream of trance and/or reggae music. Therefore, it was no surprise to find Special Lassi on the drink menu. For any police officers or my mother, I did not get it. Mostly because the waiter told me they didn't have the "stuff" to make it. A special lassi is also known as a bhang lassi, and is made with a liquid derivative of marijuana. It's legal in many parts of India, and Rajasthan has many licensed bhang shops where one could partake. But, as I stated, I did not get it. Because they were out. They were also, it would seem, out of food, and their chef had gone for food but hadn't come back, so we left and got lunch elsewhere.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WRjeZesWjZw/UMmLEwU6FSI/AAAAAAAAAIM/yN1YhBZIFdk/s1600/DSCN0480.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WRjeZesWjZw/UMmLEwU6FSI/AAAAAAAAAIM/yN1YhBZIFdk/s1600/DSCN0480.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lassi of unknown origins.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Later that night, we decided to get dinner. On the way to dinner, we stopped at the Soul Meet Cafe for a pre-dinner drink. Don't judge. My special lassi arrived, and to be honest, it tasted pretty gross. Down the hatch it went, though. As I was drinking it on the terrace, I heard a huge rustling in the trees, and suddenly a monkey landed on our table and ran across it. Not knowing how strong the special lassi was, I asked Beau if that really just happened.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iRBgwrB-oV4/UMmLMTZ4tCI/AAAAAAAAAIU/HoTiknU7Ez0/s1600/DSCN0478.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iRBgwrB-oV4/UMmLMTZ4tCI/AAAAAAAAAIU/HoTiknU7Ez0/s1600/DSCN0478.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monkey. Great in theory, until you're tripping balls on a <br />special lassi and it decides sashay across your table. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Yeah, that really just happened. For the record, it took a while for the lassi to kick in. Then I wanted to lay on the bed and listen to music (The Doors and the Grateful Dead, mostly) and talk about foreign policy and investment strategies. Then I suddenly wanted to stop talking and go to bed. An interesting experience, but not one I'm likely to repeat.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JD6cy9cMTQc/UMmLQQ3Mw3I/AAAAAAAAAIc/5h6xA6rcAiY/s1600/DSCN0473.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JD6cy9cMTQc/UMmLQQ3Mw3I/AAAAAAAAAIc/5h6xA6rcAiY/s1600/DSCN0473.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The restaurant roof was bliss.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We spent the rest of our time in Udaipur relaxing on our hotel roof, taking boat rides, trying to get pants made (my Hindi may not be great, but the guy clearly called me "jumbo" in English), having a mild breakdown after trying to get pants made, getting pants made at another tailor, and buying bus tickets for our next leg. For the record, India is hard on pants. Nearly every pair I had developed holes, probably from the vigorous laundry techniques.<br />
<br />
Up next: Mount Abu and then some more Mount Abu<br />
<br />
<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4FPKYMog2UE/UMmLcWMr-XI/AAAAAAAAAIk/n0v3Y0Rhhnk/s1600/DSCN0001.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4FPKYMog2UE/UMmLcWMr-XI/AAAAAAAAAIk/n0v3Y0Rhhnk/s1600/DSCN0001.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This city is just so damn gorgeous.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uaPj12IqTVY/UMmLdMXdAWI/AAAAAAAAAIs/jRj4iXTPIEg/s1600/DSCN0002.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uaPj12IqTVY/UMmLdMXdAWI/AAAAAAAAAIs/jRj4iXTPIEg/s1600/DSCN0002.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The views from the roof were amazing.</td></tr>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kr-d2azugKQ/UMmLdiW7k5I/AAAAAAAAAI0/NZ31n65e_M8/s1600/DSCN0006.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kr-d2azugKQ/UMmLdiW7k5I/AAAAAAAAAI0/NZ31n65e_M8/s1600/DSCN0006.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rooftop dining situation. Get the muesli for breakfast.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VoHQ5Qv24b8/UMmLfPhcMMI/AAAAAAAAAJM/vC33FkgN6yA/s1600/DSCN0468.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VoHQ5Qv24b8/UMmLfPhcMMI/AAAAAAAAAJM/vC33FkgN6yA/s1600/DSCN0468.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Private balcony off our room. <br />Also known as the drying rack for my laundry.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7cF6XxNdVrA/UMmLhoc9rYI/AAAAAAAAAJs/RoixKupGH6I/s1600/DSCN0474.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7cF6XxNdVrA/UMmLhoc9rYI/AAAAAAAAAJs/RoixKupGH6I/s1600/DSCN0474.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I call this one "Study of a Pensive Man."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o098HvOCUXk/UMmLjD1IUtI/AAAAAAAAAKA/djKaM-Au9q4/s1600/DSCN0519.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o098HvOCUXk/UMmLjD1IUtI/AAAAAAAAAKA/djKaM-Au9q4/s1600/DSCN0519.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Going on an obligatory boat ride around the lake.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eKNT1x8tUWA/UMmLjzysgdI/AAAAAAAAAKI/FZIOKM0OSKg/s1600/DSCN0527.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eKNT1x8tUWA/UMmLjzysgdI/AAAAAAAAAKI/FZIOKM0OSKg/s1600/DSCN0527.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This? I said I'd marry this?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bC9pmc06ZJQ/UMmLklXtGiI/AAAAAAAAAKU/SLpTeisa4Ng/s1600/DSCN0528.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bC9pmc06ZJQ/UMmLklXtGiI/AAAAAAAAAKU/SLpTeisa4Ng/s1600/DSCN0528.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This hotel was one of our favorites on the trip.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14635171002350438929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-42456118989789015732012-12-08T22:42:00.000-09:002012-12-12T22:43:56.360-09:00The Great Escape, Or How We Got To UdaipurWhen last we left, Beau and I had been stuck in Agra for days. We finally broke down and bought overpriced bus tickets just to get out of that festering hellhole of touts. I kid. Agra was lovely. (Seriously, try to do it in a day trip or skip it entirely. That place sucked.)<br />
<br />
As we were heading back to the hotel, our rickshaw driver started offering to take us to shops. We kept saying no, and he kept offering. Finally I busted out the Hindi and told him "No, take us to the hotel." He got excited that I knew some Hindi, and we started talking Bollywood. When he found out we had been stuck for a few days, he told us he could get us bus tickets for Rs600 each. Good deal, but first we had to get our money back for the overpriced tickets.<br />
<br />
The driver dropped us off around the corner from the travel agent. As we approached, I took Beau's arm and started trying to look weak. We told them I drank bad water and we couldn't travel. Sensing that we wanted a refund, they seemed to suddenly not understand English. With a bit of arguing, they peeled off some money and gave it to Beau. Some money, not all of it. Beau told them he had paid Rs900 each. Someone pointed to the back of the tickets and said that there was a 70% refund policy.<br />
<br />
I started getting irate (but still acting sick) and asked them how we were supposed to read devangari script. The grumpy man in charge told us to sit down and wait. So we sat and waited. And waited some more. And it started to rain and we were still waiting. My mind started to turn. I asked Beau for his water while we waited and took a few sips to soothe my "upset" stomach. I got a good mouthful of water, gave the bottle back and waited some more. Suddenly, without warning Beau, I got up, ran across the travel agency and stood on the edge of the patio, dramatically heaving until I let the water flow from my mouth. As I stumbled back to Beau, wiping the fake vomit from my mouth with my scarf, I could see him trying not to laugh. Instead, like any good boyfriend, he wrapped his arms around me and asked if I wanted to try to get on the bus that night since I seemed to be feeling better. Bam! Full refund.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V1AglFuFO7Y/UMmFtHVZyHI/AAAAAAAAAHE/7MPYx2SBtLE/s1600/smDSCN0425.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V1AglFuFO7Y/UMmFtHVZyHI/AAAAAAAAAHE/7MPYx2SBtLE/s1600/smDSCN0425.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've got a golden ticket. Not to the chocolate factory, but to get the hell out of Agra. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Ignoring the bad karma that lay in wait in my future, we headed back around the corner to our rickshaw driver and went to get our tickets. Rs600 each, we had tickets. And yes, if you're doing the math, I fake puked to save $12. It wasn't the money, it was the principle.<br />
<br />
We showed up at the new travel agency at 6:00 for our 6:30 departure. And we waited. 6:30 came and went. 7:00 came and went. At 7:30, we saw our original bus drive by. Finally, at 7:45, our bus pulled up. Right on time (for India).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UIDYXvuJMIw/UMmFt-zjdjI/AAAAAAAAAHM/bKivKLlU6m0/s1600/smDSCN0436.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UIDYXvuJMIw/UMmFt-zjdjI/AAAAAAAAAHM/bKivKLlU6m0/s1600/smDSCN0436.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bus! Freedom!</td></tr>
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We were on a bus. We were on our way to Udaipur. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WpOLs5mIyVU/UMmFunX3LZI/AAAAAAAAAHU/MiNjCxbzBao/s1600/smDSCN0441.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WpOLs5mIyVU/UMmFunX3LZI/AAAAAAAAAHU/MiNjCxbzBao/s1600/smDSCN0441.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Things got a little crazy. <br />What happens in the double sleeper berth stays in the double sleeper berth.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Most importantly, we were leaving Agra. Beau was clearly giddy with excitement. We had a double sleeper berth, and we settled in to sleep. Which would have been easy to do if the bus wasn't slowing down for speed bumps every kilometer or so. <br />
<br />
And then some time passed and it was morning and we were still on a bus. It turns out that taking a bus to circumvent Gujjar roadblocks means taking the scenic route. The very long, actually-not-so-scenic route. And even that route didn't entirely avoid the Gujjars, as we discovered when our bus came to a stop and was surrounded by yelling men with big sticks. Beau tried to look out the window to see what was going on, but I yanked him inside, hissing that he'd better keep his honky face hidden. After some terse negotiations, the bus was allowed through the roadblock to drop off a few locals, then promptly turned around and sent off to find another route. We were back on our way to Udaipur. Nothing could stop us! <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Pmim01m_ppE/UMmFvjrey6I/AAAAAAAAAHc/2TecL1nbHBo/s1600/smDSCN0445.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Pmim01m_ppE/UMmFvjrey6I/AAAAAAAAAHc/2TecL1nbHBo/s1600/smDSCN0445.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We attempted to slyly take a picture at first.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Until we came to a stop on a hill. The bus had run out of gas. Undeterred, someone jury-rigged a funnel system and attempted to put a few liters of gas in from a plastic bottle. After many attempts, the driver got the engine started, and we were back on our way to Udaipur. Nothing could stop us!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Pmim01m_ppE/UMmFvjrey6I/AAAAAAAAAHc/2TecL1nbHBo/s1600/smDSCN0445.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hAiAY3TbAPI/UMmFwaFyDtI/AAAAAAAAAHk/DC6YZh4-bf0/s1600/smDSCN0448.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hAiAY3TbAPI/UMmFwaFyDtI/AAAAAAAAAHk/DC6YZh4-bf0/s1600/smDSCN0448.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At this point, we just balatantly took pictures.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Until we were a few hundred feet up the same hill, when we ran out of gas again. You really can't make stuff like this up. This time, they sent someone down the hill in a rickshaw, and brought back an open bucket full of gas. They set up a more complicated system using tubes and gravity to fill the tank. It took several more tries, but we were back on our way to Udaipur. Nothing coul---oh hell, let's just jump to the chase. We finally got to the top of the hill, where we pulled into a gas station, and then turned around without getting gas and started going back down the hill to a different gas station. Really. <br />
<br />
Finally, FINALLY, we got to Udaipur, got a rickshaw, and got to our hotel. The night did not end there, but that's a story for another day.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831854971366586942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-64350029976721037032012-12-07T09:56:00.002-09:002012-12-07T09:56:26.438-09:00all aboard the blogging trainBeau is back. Technically, he came back almost two months ago, but I've been selfishly keeping him all to myself. I even skipped yoga for weeks just to spend time staring at him and hoping he wouldn't wake up to find me staring at him. Creepy: You're doing it right!<br />
<br />
We did not, however, slack on house hunting. I moved into a ghetto apartment (but it's cheap!) right before his return, but a one-bedroom will never be enough for us. So he arrived in Alaska at 6 pm on a Thursday. At noon on Friday, we were meeting with a mortgage banker. By Monday, we had met with our realtor and handed her a list of eight high-priority houses and 14 medium-priority. Yeah, we had some spreadsheets going. Don't judge.<br />
<br />
Next week, we will close on our new house and move in. There will be pictures. And 10 days after we close, I leave for a month in India. It will be Beau's turn to miss me and stare at me while I sleep after my return.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14635171002350438929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-24511575285063126692012-07-11T23:13:00.000-08:002012-07-11T23:13:30.371-08:00heard on Skype<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">ok... cubic yard of pudding. go on...</span></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>--Beau</i></span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Well, it's for pudding wrestling. Obvs.<br />:*<br />But, yeah, seriously, it's for pudding wrestling.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">--Me, not making the <br />situation any clearer</span></i></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Beau is too far away from me.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> True, we've spent every summer apart thus far, but this time it's more than 350 miles. He's on the other side of the world, and I've packed up and moved to Anchorage. I sleep on a bed on the floor of a friend's spare room, and wait to sell my house in Fairbanks. The Internet is too slow where he is, so we stick mostly to Skype chat. Getting cut off in video chat is worse than not seeing him at all.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Life in the big-ish city is taking shape. Although I still travel to Fairbanks on the weekends, I have set up a small routine here. I have dance classes and a yoga pass, and lots of friends to connect with. The owner of the yoga studio asked me to start subbing for classes, and I'm undertaking an epic tour of local restaurants. Last weekend I drugged the cat and drove her down the Parks Highway. Nibbles is settling into life locked in one room with me, and is extra-needy. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But even a new location can't keep my mind from wandering, and so I have gathered a small group of friends and made plans to return to India this winter. When I don't have my husband here to ground me, it seems awfully easy to pick up and go somewhere for a while. I miss being surrounded by the chaos of Rajasthan. The itinerary has yet to be determined, though we're pretty sure we'll be going to Pushkar in January. I'm probably going to lose the battle to skip Agra.</span></span> </span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
</div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14635171002350438929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-25602835545678007972012-07-04T14:36:00.002-08:002012-07-04T14:36:25.762-08:00I'm not dead yetYou can blame Google and a name change. I had to change my email address after I got married, and ran into amazing problems trying to access this old blog. It got to the point where I gave up for a bit. Then a few friends told me they were sad I'd taken my blog down. Nope, Google took it down for me. It seems someone was trying to break into my old e-mail (which was still the main account for this blog), and they shut me down as a security precaution. The good news is that they fixed a lot of the Blogger issues in the interim, so I think I'm back.<br />
<br />
A few quick and minor updates:<br />
<ul>
<li>Beau and I spent a month in Hawaii for our honeymoon. For part of that time, we slept in the back of a cargo van. That was my idea, and it was awesome.</li>
<li>After 4 months, 2 speeding tickets and at least 6,500 miles put on my car, I got my yoga teaching certification.</li>
<li>Beau graduated from UAF with a degree in Computational Physics. It's kind of like majoring in Nerdology with a minor in Geek Sciences.</li>
<li>After graduation, Beau deployed to Afghanistan for 4 months.</li>
<li>To fill up my time in his absence, I quit my job, put my house on the market and moved to Anchorage. </li>
</ul>
See? Nothing major. No biggie.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14635171002350438929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-8035797032438612562011-11-29T14:46:00.001-09:002011-11-29T14:47:41.875-09:00om (and all that other stuff)One of these days, I will finish posting all the tales from India. Since it’s been almost a year, those stories are long overdue. Instead of glorious stories of vomit both real and fake, I’m checking in with an update.<br />
<br />
Beau and I decided to spend Thanksgiving with family. The nearest family we could find was 10 hours away, but that didn’t deter us. We took a quick overnight rest break in Anchorage, and arrived in Homer around 1 p.m. on Thanksgiving Day. His father and stepmother built a house there and finally moved into it in the fall. One of his sisters was there with her family when we arrived, and we had the traditional holiday meal.<br />
<br />
On a side note: I’m not sure if I just try too hard to be an iconoclast, but the trappings and finery of holiday traditions bore me. Given the chance, I try to ignore them. I tried to avoid Christmas by going to New Zealand one year, though we ended up at a strange hostel party regardless. That same year, I also hosted Bollywood Thanksgiving, as a way to honor the other Indians. We made a Ganesh in our Lite Brite coffeetable. And last year, India proved an excellent way to dodge Christmas, as no one even blinked an eye on December 25.<br />
<br />
While in Homer, I did my best to support the local economy by visiting a winery, brewery and meadery. It was a trifecta of alcoholism. Beau and I also met up with an old friend from Fairbanks for a drink, and watched far too much television. There’s a reason why I don’t want cable. On the drive back to Anchorage, I picked out the spot for our dream retirement house and we discussed architectural features and long-range timelines for making retirement happen.<br />
<br />
On Sunday, I had a hot, sweaty date with a yoga studio. I spent 90 minutes in a dimly lit room, contorting my body and sweating more that I thought possible. There’s a reason why that studio has showers for its students. The class was the culmination of a personal 30-day yoga challenge I had set for myself. For a solid month, I did some form of yoga every day. I had my regular hot yoga class through UAF. I attended the Saturday community yoga group. I dropped in on yogalates, Kundalini and restorative classes at a local studio. I practiced at home. I stayed consistent.<br />
<br />
One doesn’t just enter into 30 days of yoga lightly, and I had a goal in mind. I was testing out the waters, and I decided to take the plunge. This spring, I will be getting my yoga teacher certification. It’s not going to be easy: The nearest training is in Anchorage, so I will be driving down there for 9 weekends spread out over 4 months. So on top of the cost of certification, there will be gas and hotel expenses. Still, I’m confident this is a good move for me.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14635171002350438929noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-28415235282498468792011-11-09T15:41:00.000-09:002011-11-09T15:41:16.049-09:00weekends and winnings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FJltI74UMZ0/TrsdGRZrR6I/AAAAAAAAAEc/Fp_pFA1y-to/s1600/hobbies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="188" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FJltI74UMZ0/TrsdGRZrR6I/AAAAAAAAAEc/Fp_pFA1y-to/s640/hobbies.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c4DrdlPl9L8/TrsZWk45R9I/AAAAAAAAAEU/Rl8bNS2z5TA/s1600/hobbies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><br />
I got an extra hour over the weekend. It's not that I'm a time-traveler or that the universe likes me best. Everyone who observes daylight savings also got an extra hour, but I'm pretty sure most people I know used it to sleep. Or play Minecraft. Not naming any names. <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Beau)</span><br />
<br />
After popping out of bed all bright and chipper at 8 a.m. (technically, 7 a.m.) on Sunday, I had to figure out what to do with myself. When you're a morning person living with a night person, you spend a lot of time figuring out what to do with yourself. I'm certain that our relationship will improve once we buy a bigger house so that I can move around in it without making too much noise in the mornings. But on Sunday morning, I decided to mosey down to the fabric store and buy myself some supplies. Once I was suitably equipped, I returned home and set myself to learning to knit.<br />
<br />
I sew. There's no secret there. I made my own wedding dress (technically, I made two of them). I sew my own clothes frequently. But knitting is not a skill I ever acquired as a youngster. And while it's true that we'll be able to steal lots of sweaters after the apocalypse, eventually the never-ending supply of <i>haute couture</i> will, in fact, end. And then what will we wear? So I was going to learn how to knit.<br />
<br />
It couldn't be too hard. I mean, I had bought a book. And yarn. And needles. Easy-peasy. Sort of. But line drawings in books don't accurately convey the complexities of the knit or the purl stitches, so I turned to the Internet. A few YouTube videos, and I was good to go. I seemed to have picked up some pretty advanced techniques, because after just a few rows, my 20 stitches had become 23. I'm now working on what is sure to be the world's ugliest scarf. Every time I decide to try a new pattern, I just hop right in. It's like I have yarn-induced ADD. On the bright side, my husband is contractually obliged to wear anything I make him.<br />
<br />
The "winning" in the title has nothing to do with knitting, however. Yesterday I got a suspicious e-mail telling me I was a winner. Instead of being from a Nigerian widow, it was actually from the writer of a finance blog I read. A few weeks ago, the blog hosted a contest, and I idly posted a comment to enter. Ka-ching. $50 Amazon gift card. They already sent me the code, so now I'm carefully assessing my multiple wishlists, trying to figure out how to best spend this windfall. (Where was this two weeks ago when I ordered a bunch of books?)<br />
<br />
I'm pretty sure one of the things I order will be <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Canning-New-Generation-Flavors-Modern/dp/1584798645">this book</a>. I've been half-heartedly meaning to give canning a try, and surely buying a book will propel me into action. (See above, re: knitting) Plus, canning is just another way to build that post-apocalyptic survival skill set. As I told a friend, <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"> <span dir="ltr" id=":4z"><b><span style="font-size: small;">"Lavender plum compote" will be worth a lot of bullets <br />
when the only food we have left is pilot bread.</span> </b></span></div><span dir="ltr" id=":4z"></span></div>Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14635171002350438929noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-66289031212636427462011-10-04T14:26:00.004-08:002011-10-05T14:39:56.391-08:00picture thisI've never been one for pictures, probably because I've never really liked what I see in them. You can call it typical female angst if you'd like. After all, isn't the yo-yo dieter a female stereotype? Are women forever doomed to be Cathy, eating chocolate ice cream and yelling "Ack!" at the scale? Regardless of how active I've been in my life, I've still never been entirely pleased with the way I look. In high school I endured a traditional upper-middle class eating disorder and still felt I was fat. In college, my activity level dropped off dramatically and I took a shine to carbs, thus altering my physique. Even getting an intestinal parasite in Central America in my early 20s didn't do the trick. Oh, sure, I dropped to around 110 pounds and you could see my ribs along the line of my sternum, but still I felt fat.<br /><br />Partly, I blame my father. It's not that he ever told me I was fat or made me feel bad about myself. To the contrary, he's always been very accepting of me. However, he did give me half of my genetics. And in the gene pool lottery, I somehow missed out on my mother's skinny legs and instead inherited the functional Haley thighs. Yes, I also lucked out and got a small waist, and I've certainly read the research telling me that pear-shaped women are statistically much healthier than apple-shaped women. But still, when I look at pictures, I zero in on the lower half of my body and sigh.<br /><br />As you may know, my lower half caused me even more consternation last year when I tore my ACL. I went from being a very active dancer and hitting the gym about four times a week to laying in bed and watching four season of Star Trek: Enterprise. I drowned my sorrows in cookies and went into the hospital for two procedures to try to get my knee functional again. I endured more than a year of physical therapy (which my insurance is still refusing to pay for, but that's another story). I was getting stronger, but then I got laid off, went to India and ate my weight in paneer curries for a month. Needless to say, after months of inactivity, I don't really like to look at pictures from India. My goal for the trip was to get Delhi belly and get skinny. I was only 50% successful.<br /><br />So, without much fanfare, I decided it was time to Do Something About It. It's worth noting that many times in the past I decided to do something about it. But this was different. This time I decided to really Do Something About It. And I did. And I have been Doing Something About It for months. This week marked a milestone. A milestone best represented with a graph.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xHT6botj2bo/TouIKpks3vI/AAAAAAAAAu0/_cBKV-2EECY/s1600/weight.png"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 193px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xHT6botj2bo/TouIKpks3vI/AAAAAAAAAu0/_cBKV-2EECY/s320/weight.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659767073261018866" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The graph you see represents my real weight vs. the weight listed on my driver's license. You can clearly see the slow and steady upward creep of my weight since I arrived in Alaska. You can see the point in 2008 when I had to renew my license and decided to be a little less dishonest about my weight. And you can also see how the two numbers never matched up. But you can also see that this week, for the first time in almost a decade, I weigh LESS than my driver's license. Less than the number I made up a few years ago to soothe my vanity.<br /><br />This is cause for celebration, right? Like with a piece of rich gooey cake! Just kidding - I ordered new shoes instead. And I finally feel ready to tackle my stash of fabric and vintage patterns that I've been hesitant to sew for more than a year now.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gMIauiVgxNg/TouIKq84ucI/AAAAAAAAAus/Qs59WPUI8qc/s1600/ww_results.png"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 126px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gMIauiVgxNg/TouIKq84ucI/AAAAAAAAAus/Qs59WPUI8qc/s320/ww_results.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659767073630894530" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And the kicker to all this is that even as my weight has been dropping, my activity level has stayed low. I think the last time I actually exercised was July 29. I've been pretty busy with dance, but I don't really think that counts as exercise. My theory is that all the stress of renovating our house and trying to plan a wedding reception was helping with the weight loss. Yay, stress!<br /><br />So maybe I don't like looking at the pictures from India. (And maybe I'm trying to only put up good ones of me here.) But I do like pictures like this.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lCd1mvnOYso/TozcR90p-gI/AAAAAAAAAu8/0pCmJZQnkn4/s1600/before_after.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 310px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lCd1mvnOYso/TozcR90p-gI/AAAAAAAAAu8/0pCmJZQnkn4/s320/before_after.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660141032909175298" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">I had to blur the backgrounds to hide the shameful fact<br />that our house is STILL not finished. How many calories<br />can I burn mudding and taping the walls?</span></span><br /></div><br />And Beau and I have our tickets to Hawaii for this winter. We'll be island-hopping for three weeks. I'm sure to like some of the pictures from that trip.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831854971366586942noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-831234560665524432011-08-26T15:53:00.002-08:002011-08-26T16:05:34.048-08:00stressed? me?Our wedding reception is in 8 days. The wedding reception that we will be holding in our backyard. The backyard of the house that was supposed to have two simple renovation projects this summer. The house that currently has only half of the walls up in the living room, and a bathroom that has a bathtub in it (but not hooked up) and nothing else.
<br />
<br />My husband is 350 miles away. Still.
<br />Thanks to a sharp utility knife on Monday, I have one functional hand and 5 stitches in my left hand.
<br />And somehow I have to finish a LOT of the house projects on my own. Because Beau (bless his pea-picking heart) has lofty beliefs that he will arrive Monday night and the house will be completely ready by Friday.
<br />
<br />Oh, and I should probably find time to make all the desserts for the reception. And there's that 3-hour workshop and performance this weekend. But I'm not stressed at all.
<br />Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831854971366586942noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-84280268698699130762011-08-15T20:31:00.002-08:002011-08-15T20:40:55.203-08:00checking inGoogle does not make it easy to change your name. This is the problem with picking a username like jane.doe instead of something like teddy_bear1234. Since my name is in my username, when I changed my last name, I had to set up entirely new accounts. I'm going to have to start sharing access to this blog with myself so I can get in here easily to post.
<br />
<br />I'm tired. Home renovations have worn me down. Beau is coming into town this weekend, and we are going to spend 4 solid days working on the house. Our wedding reception is being held here at the beginning of September. It's time to get some stuff done. Right now there is nothing in the bathroom but walls and a floor. The living room needs drywall everywhere.
<br />
<br />I'm taking a rare night off from work on the house. I investigated the linen cabinet a bit, but it looks like I'm going to have to remove it entirely. I don't feel like starting that project. It's 8:30 pm, and the skies are a clear blue with lots of sun. I want to get on my bike and go for a ride, but I'm too tired. I haven't ridden in weeks, and I've been slacking on running the stairs for a few weeks, too. I need to get back in the game.
<br />Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831854971366586942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-63895717645958860762011-07-24T21:47:00.005-08:002011-07-24T22:04:29.233-08:00heard on the bike trail<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">I'm not sure which was worse today:<br />Deciding to eat a prune instead of a cookie<br />or saying that I can't buy more shoes<br />because I just got a new lawn mower.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: right; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">--Me. Getting<br />old sucks.<br /></span></div><br />I know it's shocking that I posted more the blog whilst abroad than I have since my return. If I could get pictures off my camera (note to self: buy card reader), I could show you a progress report of the summer. Of bike miles ridden and things torn out of my walls. Of things put back in my walls, and other things torn out of other walls. There's an empty spot in my bathroom where a tub used to be. It now rests against the fence outside, and I'm trying to figure out how best to put in a new crossbeam for bathroom floor support so that the rest of the bathroom work can progress. I've left the toilet hooked up in a doorless room stripped to the studs. It's still slightly better than an outhouse, so we've got that advantage over many Fairbanksans.<br /><br />Partly my work has been stymied by the lack of a truck. We hired someone to install the windows, and he was kind enough to dispose of the bathroom walls, which had ended up on my back porch. But getting stuff to my house hasn't gone as well. Tomorrow I plan to rent a U-Haul truck and go grab the rest of what I need. I may not be able to start until I get that crossbeam in place, but at least I'll have everything here.<br /><br />I've started a massive purge of my closet. I've got 27 dresses and 19 shoes ready to go away. I'm debating using them to barter help with construction. I figure they're used, but the value is actually higher because they're curated from my personal collection. It feels liberating to be getting rid of some of my stuff, shedding some of my baggage. My life isn't getting too minimalist, though as 28 pairs of shoes remain.<br /><br />I don't know if it's the getting old bit or the (sadly sub-par) Indian food that Nancy, the twins and I biked out to tonight, but I feel the itchy feet again. I've got the urge to travel, to see a new place. We still need to book tickets for our honeymoon, and maybe that will help me. Or maybe not. Maybe I need to crash a wedding in El Salvador this winter or show up on my friend's new doorstep in Jakarta suddenly. I just feel the urge to be in a crowded marketplace that jars all my senses.<br /><br />Or maybe I should just rebuild my shower.Maryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831854971366586942noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13006410.post-64224161570105317402011-06-30T20:59:00.004-08:002011-07-15T21:54:13.023-08:00Agra, or Arrrgh-graAgra is a great and noble city. It is home to the Taj Mahal, one of the most famous monuments in the world. Nearly everybody who goes to India will visit Agra. And I am here to tell you the truth: Agra kind of sucked a lot.<br /><br />It's not really Agra's fault. It can't help being the biggest tourist trap in the country. And we only planned to spend two days there. But as John Lennon once said, "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans." And so it was that when we got to Agra, we found out that the Gujjars had gone on strike and closed down all transport into and around Rajasthan. They were literally sitting on the roads and the train tracks. Our plans to go to Ranthambhore? Train was canceled. Our hastily concocted backup plans to leave the day after we were supposed to leave? Train was canceled. Our harrowing escape came at great personal, karmic expense. More on that later.<br /><br />We arrived in the evening and made our way to the hotel. Tourists Rest House. Good place. I highly recommend it. The next day, we met our rickshaw driver from the previous evening. We had agreed on a set price to hire him for the day to take us to various places in Agra. And thus I present the Agra picture porn:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--3FdBx9g_44/TiEiKl5W2KI/AAAAAAAAAtc/So-GR_KoGk0/s1600/smDSCN0256.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--3FdBx9g_44/TiEiKl5W2KI/AAAAAAAAAtc/So-GR_KoGk0/s320/smDSCN0256.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629818574556551330" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Taj Mahal. Rs750 each to get in. Overpriced.<br />Our hotel was less than that. Go EARLY to avoid the massive crowds.</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tng__nQaC6w/TiEiK5RPzII/AAAAAAAAAtk/87NoratAJzE/s1600/smDSCN0273.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tng__nQaC6w/TiEiK5RPzII/AAAAAAAAAtk/87NoratAJzE/s320/smDSCN0273.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629818579757026434" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Pretty Taj bits.</span></span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uINCUWGaPcc/TiEiKxBaetI/AAAAAAAAAts/t4XZpprYhuE/s1600/smDSCN0285.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uINCUWGaPcc/TiEiKxBaetI/AAAAAAAAAts/t4XZpprYhuE/s320/smDSCN0285.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629818577543133906" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Agra Fort self portrait.</span></span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4yyTqubq3iM/TiEiLGw5lPI/AAAAAAAAAt0/YXa4BthWCYA/s1600/smDSCN0310.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4yyTqubq3iM/TiEiLGw5lPI/AAAAAAAAAt0/YXa4BthWCYA/s320/smDSCN0310.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629818583379449074" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Cool carved screens.</span></span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-X1Z1TPRhc8c/TiEiYUv4ACI/AAAAAAAAAt8/JyCIQLAWncA/s1600/smDSCN0327.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-X1Z1TPRhc8c/TiEiYUv4ACI/AAAAAAAAAt8/JyCIQLAWncA/s320/smDSCN0327.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629818810471546914" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This is what you call "finding the light."</span></span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--c6yT13DpeM/TiEiYmEAyyI/AAAAAAAAAuE/O9n91i1ouFs/s1600/smDSCN0354.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--c6yT13DpeM/TiEiYmEAyyI/AAAAAAAAAuE/O9n91i1ouFs/s320/smDSCN0354.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629818815119412002" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Faded beauty (the building, not me).</span></span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-J5OtrguTEiM/TiEiY3K7bQI/AAAAAAAAAuM/FJMInI1rd-o/s1600/smDSCN0383.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-J5OtrguTEiM/TiEiY3K7bQI/AAAAAAAAAuM/FJMInI1rd-o/s320/smDSCN0383.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629818819711823106" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This was an off-the-beaten-track place Manish brought us.</span></span><br /></div><br />Overall, I was pleased with hiring him for the day. Until the end of the day, when we suddenly found ourselves being brought to shops. Beau quickly learned to follow my lead when I started begging poor and heading for the door. Manish earned his commissions, but lost any tip that we may have been inclined to give.<br /><br />The next day, we checked out of the hotel and went to the Taj Nature Walk for the afternoon. Naturally we saw Manish as we passed the Taj entrance.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sJG-UIWPzqU/TiEiZHBwDOI/AAAAAAAAAuU/KsIQodKX2bI/s1600/smDSCN0421.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sJG-UIWPzqU/TiEiZHBwDOI/AAAAAAAAAuU/KsIQodKX2bI/s320/smDSCN0421.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629818823968296162" border="0" /></a><br />For Rs100 each, the Taj Nature Walk was a good way to pass the time. Sure, you only saw the Taj in the distance, but there were no crowds of people. The few kids that bothered us there quickly figured out that I really wasn't going to give them chocolate or money, and they left us alone. We spent a few hours wandering the paths and startling large, hooved animals.<br /><br />Then we went back to the hotel, grabbed our bags and went to the train station for our journey to Ranthambhore and tigers! Except remember that little Gujjar strike? No trains were running. Back to the hotel, check into another room, find some <span style="font-style: italic;">tatkal</span> tickets for the next day, with a new plan to skip Ranthambhore and head straight to Udaipur.<br /><br />The next day we woke up, checked out of the hotel and decided to kill some time by taking a cycle rickshaw around the city. Pedal power is not only cheaper, but slower. We stopped at a travel agent to inquire about bus tickets to Udaipur. These were normally around Rs300. They quoted us Rs600 for a seat and Rs800 for a sleeper. Since we had the <span style="font-style: italic;">tatkal</span> tickets, we went back to the hotel, grabbed our bags, and went to the train station. No trains were running. We hopped a rickshaw back to the travel agent, but they told us the bus was full. Back to the hotel, check into another room, have a small fit.<br /><br />The next morning, Beau went back to the travel agent, who quoted him Rs1000 for a seat. He got it down to Rs900, then bought two tickets. We had time to kill, so we went to Pizza Hut for lunch. We also documented some hideous wiring.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O4FTiVLWBMc/TiEiZENxWmI/AAAAAAAAAuc/FVeN-kpOMnY/s1600/smDSCN0423.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O4FTiVLWBMc/TiEiZENxWmI/AAAAAAAAAuc/FVeN-kpOMnY/s320/smDSCN0423.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629818823213406818" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Overhead wires. I kind of expected them to look this way.</span></span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Hl0QTLvnmnw/TiEidEKfg-I/AAAAAAAAAuk/d1DWYbjoO-Q/s1600/smDSCN0424.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Hl0QTLvnmnw/TiEidEKfg-I/AAAAAAAAAuk/d1DWYbjoO-Q/s320/smDSCN0424.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629818891919131618" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >The open box of shitty connections did not look very safe.</span><br /><br /></div>On the way out, we ran into Manish again. Small town. And then we got into the rickshaw of destiny.<br /><br />Up next: The Great Escape, Or How We Got To UdaipurMaryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10831854971366586942noreply@blogger.com0