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India 2017 part 1: Mumbai

June 3, 2017

Many years ago now, I met Sahitya.  Her husband, in the Indian Navy, was building ships here in the local shipyard.  We all spent some good times together before their hitch was up and the Navy called them home.  From that point, See India has been on my FrogHops Travel list.

Only a few years ago, a sanctuary called Wildlife S.O.S. in Agra, India crossed my stream.  I began to follow them, support them, and become enthralled with the rescue and rehabilitation work they do.  So, when the travel stars aligned for us to visit Sahitya and Vasu (and their no-longer-at-all little boy Adi, also the gorgeous canine addition to the family, Luca), I couldn’t miss visiting WSOS as well.  They like volunteers, suggesting a week’s stay.  But what if that wouldn’t be enough?  It’s not a difficult nor expensive trip to Delhi, but still, while I’m already there. . .  I signed on for two weeks.

Then, as India has a reputation for being advanced travel, we decided just to book a tour of the northern highlights, have someone else making arrangements, setting timetables, and acquiring all the necessary bits of paper to see the sights.

A nice posh landing in Mumbai (which locals still often refer to as Bombay, out of habit), being toured and fed with friendly local knowledge, then stepping a bit more into the grit while being schlepped around by a guide, and finally moving out of the air conditioning entirely and on to hard ~but deeply satisfying~ labor would be the evolution of our itinerary.  Well, ours up to the days of 40°C, no air con.  At this point, the man would return home and get back to work.  Not that he wouldn’t have loved to be scrubbing elephants by my side, but someone has to pay for it all.  And he really enjoyed telling people, “I took my wife to India. . . and left her there.”

So, with our English blood still carrying a politically incorrect fascination with pith helmets, gin & tonic, and the Raj, we decided to splash out for our first visit to the Subcontinent by staying at the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, Mumbai.  Posh landing, indeed.  Our room was in the historical part of the hotel, not the modern tower addition, so we were special, being allowed up the beautiful staircase.  And there was a lounge, just for us, not even for our guests, where there was tea, coffee, and nibbles freely available, and special occasions involving cocktails, high tea, and evening chocolate.  The lounge was decorated . . . straight out of The Bombay Company, the mid-range reproduction furniture store in the mall of my childhood.  It was a curious experience to be there, in Bombay in 2017, admiring the furniture which was styled by the Raj to outfit colonial homes, with obsequious staff standing by ready to serve.


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If only my bag had arrived with us.  They had 8 hours in Heathrow to make the connection: fail.  Now, after multiple misconnections last spring under the inept ministrations of British Airways, I am quite cross with them.  Apparently, the knuckle-dragging baggage handlers had managed to lose the giant sticky tag that always requires such effort to remove in the end.  Upon landing in Mumbai, Craig received the cryptic text message “We have your bag” and a string of numbers.  It looked like a ransom note, without any details.  At the last minute while checking in, I had borrowed his spare ID tag for my backpack.  Never again will I let that little detail slide.  We showed that text to a Customer Service agent, who made sense of the numbers, called LHR, connected that lost bag to me, and told them to send it onward.  If it didn’t catch the flight leaving presently, it would make the next one and be here in 24 hours.  3 days later. . . pack arrived by bell-hop to our room.  With hardly an apology, British Airways finally fulfilled their commitment to carry me and one bag through a two-leg itinerary.  It doesn’t bear consideration what a complicated itinerary or onward journey even 2 days later would have meant.

It was hot.  I had one outfit, hiking boots, and my sense of humor was rumpled.  Dear local friend to the rescue!  She loaned me flip flops, a skirt, and a blouse.  And took me shopping.  I had intended to acquire for myself a kurta or two anyway.  These are the long tunics with high side slits that nearly all Indian girls wear with leggings… all the time… when it’s 38°C (100°F).  It was becoming distressingly clear that unless I wanted to look like a hussy, my cool and breezy short-ish skirt was going to sink to the bottom of my pack and stay there.  The two pairs of loose rayon trousers with close ankles, sort of but not exactly harem pants, were put into continuous rotation.  Loose ankles drag the ground, a poor choice for third world travel.  And frankly, having fried my calves in that very skirt last spring in the Bahamas, the trousers weren’t all that impractical.  Especially for the elephant work, but that comes much later.

Sahitya put so much thought into our visit, presenting us with a schedule ~never starting too early in the morning, gold star for that~ including local sites of historical, architectural, and artistic interest and a carefully curated selection of restaurants to sample a variety of Indian cuisines.  To our mutual friends, I say whole-heartedly, “Go visit them.”  She’s got it down.  We even found together some new spots she’d been wanting to try.  We used the Yelp-like app Zomato with great success.

Excellent breakfast as recommended @ColabaSocial

The Gujarati thali lunch we had at Chetana is my favorite.  Even after a month of all Indian food, curry and chapati at nearly every meal, I would have stuffed myself here again and I would do it today.  The tables are set with trays at each place, lined with smaller bowls.  Servers appear each with their own dish to dispense into the little bowls and onto the empty spaces.  If anything is running low, someone will turn up to refill it for you, even if you couldn’t eat another bite but aren’t paying attention.  It’s all vegetarian!  You may notice Vermintino ~my little gray traveling Ikea Gösigmus~ sampling all my food.  He is an adventurous eater and a bit of a glutton.

Vegetarian Gujarati Thali @Chetana

In the neighborhood, since we can’t just eat all day, we visited the former Prince of Wales Museum.  I understand the desire to throw out the colonials, be done with occupation, and reclaim rightful culture, but Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya, really?  Even they just call it CSMVS.  Finding it to be very much worth a full day, we broke in the middle for lunch, then let Sahitya have her afternoon while we went back for more.

University of Mumbai

Former Prince of Wales Museum

Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya

Perhaps my second favorite meal was at a fun place called Swati Snacks.  “Street food” with table service, we waited for half an hour to get in.  Seemed like a good sign and was definitely worth it.  Clean and bright, we enjoyed a number of different dishes.  Puri are the little puffs, sometimes covered in gravy, sometimes stuffed and  finished with broth inside to be eaten immediately (pani means water). “But it’s all very light,” Vasu repeated with each additional round.  I’m not sure about light, but it was all so delicious that we were happy to humor him. 

Dahi Batata Puri & Pani Puri (front)

I should mention lassi, the ubiquitous yogurt drink.  It is wonderful and delicious, especially during mango season.  But it is also my belief ~and don’t you tell me otherwise; the mind can do miracles if the body will let it~ that the local good bacteria which ferment the yogurt fight against the local bad bacteria that cause Delhi Belly.  Don’t go be stupid having ice in anything, but a continual infusion of lassi, curd/yogurt, and chaach (skimmed buttermilk) is excellent prophylaxis.  So is Pepto Bismol, that coating action the ads tout is actually protective.  Our friend, the son of a diplomat, refers to the tablets as Foreign Service After Dinner Mints.  Taking them before is even better.  While we’re on the subject, for a triple threat against said Traveler’s Malady because “aint’t nobody got time for that,” I also recommend PB8, probiotic capsules.  They’ve carried me through Morocco, one particular island in the Caribbean which shall remain nameless, Vietnam, Rwanda, and now India.

One more practical note:  ATMs can run dry and stay that way for days.  They courteously put a note on the door “No Money” to spare you trying.  We were staying in a lively area with an active weekend night life, so empty ATMs on Saturday and Sunday weren’t all that surprising.  When the armored vans hadn’t made their drops by Monday afternoon,  we went straight to the mothership, HSBC.  While Craig was inside the bank playing those lottery numbers which usually win but had been letting us down recently, I waited outside.  Vermintino has a Napoleon complex, likes to be the big mouse, and sits on anyone he can.

Meanwhile, Sahitya was inside by the security station.  The guard was becoming most agitated that someone was taking pictures of . . . the bank’s lion statue?  She was attempting to have someone, anyone, step out and ask me to stop.  But she couldn’t leave her post.  No one else cared.  Vermintino is terribly pleased with himself for having sat upon the Hong Kong & Singapore Banking Corporation’s guard lion.

Every Party Needs a Pooper

March 31, 2017

I loathe April Fools’ Day.  There, I said it.  Why do we mark a day to embarrass our loved ones and/or complete strangers?  You can google for yourself how worldwide and historical the practice is.  But the wiki doesn’t delve into the Why.  Perhaps it began, like Boxing Day, as a day to turn the tables, let the Staff have a bit o’ fun to make up for the other 364.  But those days are long past and April Fools’ Day has become quite ecumenical, with anyone eligible to be targeted.  It’s mean.  The jokes are seldom funny except in that bullying “Haha, so glad that’s not me” kind of way, which isn’t funny at all.  Maybe my sense of humor is broken, but I find the Fates and the world cruel enough that to mislead or embarrass someone intentionally with the sole purpose of being able to shout, essentially, “Got you!” is pointless and sadistic.

It is with the greatest relief that April 1st will find me hermitically sealed upon the grounds of La Fortezza della Solitudine.  But were I not, I might put greater thought into countering the culture for the day.  Of course, I am counter culture here every day in 99 ways more than I know.  But perhaps I would bake cookies and leave them anonymously on my neighbors’ porch, with an April Foods’ Day note.  Or carry apples and oranges to hand to strangers.  Or perform guerrilla car washing.  Maybe weed a public garden.  Or just do something nice for instead of nasty to a friend.  The point is, I’d very much like to see this glorification of pulling one over on the unsuspecting, frankly an easy target, be forgotten.  Life always has a left-hook to the jaw in its back pocket, why add any suffering at all to the world, particularly when the Fool just might be catching that blind-side left hook later in the day already?

April in Paris

The 1st of Green in Paris

Who Changed the Locks?

January 29, 2017

So many fires burning.

If I consider them all, my heart will fall to ashes:  how to protect the wild lands inherited from our forefathers, how to stand up for immigrants just like our forefathers looking for a better life, how to convince energy companies that burning stuff was never more than a stop-gap until we could harness the unlimited power all around us, how to guard the basic health of all citizens for the good of society regardless of their ability to pay, how to guarantee a woman’s right to choose how the seed a man left behind is going to affect the rest of her life, how to save animals from needless suffering, how to educate children to prepare them for the changing world before them, how to engage the rest of the world for humanity’s sake . . . the list goes on and every day something else is set afire.

Usually, I am the apologist for the welfare of animals.  They are speechless, powerless.  Someone must stand up for them.  But today, I am thinking about humans.  I won’t get into the details of The Ban, only that it scrawls an ugly graffito across the plaque at Lady Liberty’s feet.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

If that door is closed to people of a particular religion, where does that leave our precious Freedom of Religion?  Some say we are a Christian nation.  This policy flies in the face of the very notion.  If we believe Jesus really is the way, the truth, and the life, then we should want all mankind to find this saving grace.  How will Muslims find Christ but in the midst of Christians?  Why would they be interested except that they see love and light in us that is better than anything they have ever known?  That they should find in us something they want for themselves?  Jesus told his followers to be salt and light in the world, not salt in a wound.  Before He left, He gave us a great commission: Go into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature. (Mark 16:15)  He also said, Feed my sheep. (John 21:17)  If we are Christians, this is our highest calling.  The apostle Paul didn’t place comfort or even his life above the Gospel.  Nor did any of the others who were beaten, cast out, and murdered for their faith.  We have no right to use it to defend our borders, keep ourselves safe, or send anyone back into harm’s way.  There is nothing of Christ in that.  We must trust God and rest in this assurance,

You, dear children, are from God and have overcome them, because the One who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world.                (1 John 4:4)

A Word or Two for 2017… for Starters

January 9, 2017

Oh Twenty-Seventeen, you worry me to the marrow of my bones.  I fear you will see our National Parks sold off piecemeal to the highest bidders, our life-sustaining water contaminated by industry, even the air we breathe up for sale.  Lies, politely called “fake news” or most horrifically “news,” splash across the media and are believed without skepticism.  The country will be in the hands of an egotistical, bigoted, misogynistic, ignorant man-child.  He isn’t surrounding himself with experts nor those with any history of caring about the issues over which they will wield power, the very opposite in fact.  There is a low-brow yet fitting expression for what we are poised to witness, a real $h!+ show:  our national treasures, consumed, digested, and excreted into a mound of steaming waste before our eyes.  Policies can be reversed.  Economic recovery happens.  But ground water cannot be cleansed.  Ancient forests cannot regrow.  The wild natural beauty deliberately preserved for future generations of Americans cannot be remade.  This destruction must be stopped before it begins.

To stop anything, we must know it’s happening.  Get informed.  Share that knowledge, with credible sources cited, everywhere.  Put your Congresspersons’ numbers on speed dial and call them once a week.  Your disapproval of their work can cost them their jobs.  Your appreciation of their good work will move them to do more.  Get your hands dirty locally for whatever cause you value and see is at risk.

This post began as an introduction to my Word of the Year for 2017, but even the two I was considering feel inadequate.  I’m not a violent person.  Violence is a last resort, a sinking to another’s level in self-defense.  Yet, for those who are threatened, it comes to that.  But I won’t begin the year with molotov cocktails and rage. However, 2017 may just require a quiver-full of words.  To be and to do, let us begin here.




:  capable of withstanding shock without permanent deformation or rupture

:  tending to recover from or adjust easily to misfortune or change

Bend so you don’t break.  Keep on keeping on.  Get back up.  Lean into it.  Remember who you are and why you are doing this.  It’s going to be a long hard ugly slog, but if the country you know and love is worth it, if tomorrow’s Americans deserve as much as we can save for them, hold the line.

When we are resilient, we have the power to act.




: make a thorough or dramatic change in the form, appearance, or character of.


We must transform the situation, the culture, ourselves.  Stand up to the ugliness.  Shine a light in the darkness and cockroaches scatter.  Transform your corner of the world.  We cannot afford to look away.  Bad things will happen if we do nothing.  But everyone can do something.  

Light Overcoming

December 22, 2016

It’s been a shamefully long time since I have written here.  But in such an hour of political angst, fear, and revulsion, frivolity feels underdressed at the table.  How can I blather on about cats and the wonders of the First World and my fabulous spa experiences when national leaders are being chosen, apparently, on the strength of their distain for the very things, ideas, and beings over which they will have responsibility?  But how can I write about these weighty, important, but utterly gut-wrenching things when the news streams are full to the brim with them already?  I cannot.

This is Pumpkin:

Pumpkin L-W.jpg

She lives on Vashon Island in Seattle with some humans and a dog.  I used to call her Plumpkin, when she had free access to a bottomless bowl of kibble.  But after an unfortunate incident of too much dry food and not enough water or exercise, she has been… restricted.  She gets to eat canned food for every meal!  But meals happen only twice a day.  Pumpkin has trimmed down, found new energy, and seems to feel better overall.  Next year, I will try to be more like Pumpkin.

This is a barest sampling of the marvels to be found in places such as Trader Joe’s, Staff of Life, and plain old Safeway:


Even as heretofore unheard of substances like tortillas, seitan, and maple syrup are appearing on shelves at home, every trip back to the States overwhelms me with new and amazing wonders of gastronomy.  I wander, a slack-jawed bumpkin, through groceries, gawking at the bulk food sections, transfixed with option-paralysis over the array of non-dairy milk products and cheez.  It’s a blessing that my memory is poor or I would remember these aisles of bounty when I visit my fruit & veg stand and ponder what flavor to make the cauliflower and/or eggplant today, flavors I have collected and hoarded from travels abroad.  Yes, if I’m going to be more like Pumpkin, it’s probably good that my usual diet is so limited.

This is Rupertus Therme in Bad Reichenhall, Germany:

We took a little pre-vacation holiday to Bavaria to meet up with some friends visiting from San Diego and catch the Christmas markets.  Two days soaking in a wide variety of pools, jacuzzis, saunas, and steam rooms, with massages spliced in to take advantage of the loosening of muscles.  In fact, rather than collecting stuff and tchotchkes, I invest in the personal pampering.  Two days after arriving in San Francisco, I was on a student’s massage table at the National Holistic Institute for my $30 fifty minute shiatsu.  As often as I manage to find body work, they always find new tension accumulated where I never suspected.

Since I began writing this post, someone drove a truck through the Christkindlmarkt in Berlin, killing 12 people who, like us in Munich only 3 weeks prior, were just strolling through the festivity, soaking up the magic of it all.  It casts an especially dark shadow being blasted into a season of joy and hope, one more right hook out of the blue.

The existential darkness still gathers and looms, even on this day which heralds the returning of the astronomical light, but for our own health and sanity, we cannot allow ourselves to be sucked down into it.  Be kind to yourself so that kindness may flow out into the world.  Fight the good fight wherever you may, but cultivate love everywhere you go.  Love drives out fear.  It is all that can.