The Lure of the Unpaved Roads

By Jessie, guest contributor

Read more from Jessie and her husband Robert's blog, www.knkexplore.wordpress.com

Back when my parents used to say it, the “scenic route” meant the long way. I didn't want to sit in the car for an extra 40 minutes on our drive home from church, and I didn't understand why we had to go all the way out in the opposite direction just to see what was there. I knew what was there: corn fields and orchards. Same as we would see on the normal route home.

Eventually, though, I began to catch on that taking “the scenic route” was just a small way that my parents could experience a world different from the one they knew every day, a way to briefly recapture that magic of travel that I've come to know and love as an adult. I began to realize that these back roads might be unpaved, they might be indirect, but they were never a waste of time.

Today I'm ever fascinated by those unpaved roads. On my Peru map they're represented by simple red lines that draw my curiosity. My guide book already told me what I can expect to find on the main road; I want to know what I can find on the back roads.

On a recent solo road trip from Seattle, Washington, to Tucson, Arizona, I sought out the roads that ran parallel to the highway. On my Utah map they would sometimes be marked with a row of dots if they were thought to be “scenic,” a word which does all too little to describe Utah's majestic wilderness.
The most understated of them all was the horrifyingly beautiful Hogsback Ridge (Utah's Highway 12).
After many miles of pleasant forest switchbacks the road suddenly crests. The land beside the road drops away to leave you and your car stranded on a thin ribbon of two-lane highway floating thousands of feet above a sea of windswept stone in pink and orange and cream and vermilion. Fortunately at that moment they provide a turnoff so that you can pull over in a panic and collect your wits, staring out over the Escalante badlands and commiserating with other drivers as you collectively think: “Oh, shit! I have to drive down that?”

In Peru it was the unpaved, 12-hour bus ride on a single lane dirt road from Cajamaca to Chachapoyas. It was hard to know what

View from the road from Cajamarca to Chachapoyas

was more disconcerting: watching the road while the driver sped around hairpin corners with barely a courtesy honk of the horn, or staring out over the increasingly-gorgeous scenery that was spread out so incredibly far below you.

On the road from Cajamarca to Chachapoyas

During that trip we stopped in the town of Celendín, which is overlooked by most guide books. Looking for something to do, we took a taxi up to a village to search out a waterfall we had been repeatedly told did not exist. We were warned by the taxi driver not to leave the main road, but as soon as he was out of sight we looked at each other and set out on a footpath that cut through a potato field.

Campesina woman

What would we have found if we stayed on the road? Who knows! But by taking the footpath we met an old Andean campesina and her two horses, who led us on a tour of the beautiful countryside and showed us off to her neighbors.

Campesina woman

There is merit in the well-traveled routes; after all, they would not be popular if there was nothing worthwhile to see. But I also find profound joy in looking at my state atlas and saying: “What a bizarre name for a town. Maybe I'll go there today.” It's the love of the scenic route which takes you to the out of the way places where you're on your journey alone, on roads that no one has bothered to pave. You'll always find something if you're searching for it.

48 Hours in Mysore - For Dasara (cont'd)

By Tory
The next morning Sharvan brought me to the city first, and told me he would be back with Kasia in “five to ten minutes.” Luckily by this point I knew his apartment was 45 minutes away, so he would be at least an hour and a half. I sat down, ready for a long wait. Finally, after about two hours, I called Sharvan, and he said Kasia was sick – undoubtedly from the fish curry at Hotel Roopa, I thought – and she would not be coming to the procession. At this point it was around 10 AM and families with small children were already sitting under the hot sun along the parade route, marking their places more than four hours ahead of time. I was resting on the steps of KR Hospital when a worker from the hospital began to ask me about the United States and then invited me to watch the procession from the hospital balcony, an offer I recognized as priceless only too late. He warned me about the “five lakh people” who would be watching with me later. “What is lakh again…” I thought to myself. And again, I was taken aback by another stranger’s kindness and curiosity.
Just as I was wondering how to pass the time until the procession, my Keralan acquaintances from the day before showed up and shuttled me to the zoo in an auto. The zoo was crowded but still impressive, and highlights included a performing gorilla, which drew many cheers and whistles. Some of the signs were also entertaining.

Scenes from Mysore Zoo

Leaving the zoo we struggled to find an auto driver offering less than 200% of what we had paid coming out; finally we settled on one who offered about 150%, and brought us back to KR Hospital. The crowd at 1:45 PM was enormous. I maintained my futile hope that the procession would be mostly floats, so that I could see them over the heads of the hundreds of people directly in front of me. We managed to make our way closer to the front, but as I saw the mob quickly forming behind us I requested to move to the back again, wary of the inevitable pushing that would soon follow. And indeed, from the sidelines I watched as those where I had been were nearly pushed over during the entire procession. For my part, I managed to see almost none of the procession itself.

The elephants were the highlight of the procession, and the only part I could (sort of) see.

After the elephants passed by and more ground level performances began, and I began to feel people pulling on me from every direction in the crowd, I decided it was not worth it anymore, and jetted down the street to the bus station. Alone again, I immediately noticed the difference from being with a group of Indians. Suddenly the number of people calling to me, running up and poking me, and otherwise heckling grew noticeably, and I could not make it to the bus station fast enough.
When I got there, an AC bus to Bangalore was pulling out. I asked if I could get on, and the employee said, “Yes, you are who we have been waiting for! Go on!” Encouraged, I confirmed that the bus would go to Majestic Station, and climbed aboard. I fell asleep immediately.
Suddenly I woke up and realized that despite the bus being AC, I was sweating, and everyone around me was fanning themselves. Still half asleep I asked the boy beside me to open the window. Politely, he feigned an attempt, and then informed me that the windows do not open on the AC buses.  I checked my watch and it had been only a half an hour since we left Mysore.
Shortly thereafter, the sweltering bus stopped at a rest stop and most people got off. After about twenty minutes, a crowd formed around the bus and everyone began to argue. I asked one Western-looking Indian in the crowd what was going on. He answered me in perfect English: “I have no idea.” It turned out he was an Indian-Canadian working on a two-month project in Bangalore; in the same breath, he told me “I cannot wait to go home.” I then turned to my seatmate, who was standing nearby, and looking involved. He said, more timidly, “I don’t know. I am from Kerala. I don’t understand their language.” Suddenly I realized that likely far more people than I had imagined were in my position. This highlighted for me the frustrations attendant to living in a country with so many different languages.
Eventually the driver herded us all back on the bus and the fanning again commenced. I wished I had bought a non-AC ticket. When we finally reached Majestic Station another kind stranger helped me buy a pre-paid auto to Double Road, Indira Nagar. Immediately the auto driver became belligerent, asking me things I wished I could understand. The woman in the pre-paid auto office prodded him on, however, and he pulled out of the station. As he recklessly plowed down the road, I wondered if he was still drunk from earlier Dasara celebrations.
An hour later we arrived somewhere on 2nd Stage, Indira Nagar, and my auto driver repeated “Ok, Double Road, Double Road.” I insisted that he take me to the real Double Road, and he grudgingly began to ask everyone around how to get there. When we finally found my place he wanted R$100 extra, on top of the agreed upon R$85 for the pre-paid auto. I gave him a R$100 bill and walked inside as he yelled things at me that I was happy I did not understand.
Despite the frustrations, the trip was absolutely worthwhile. The weekend was full of moments when I thought to myself that I could not be luckier, seeing such breathtaking sights as Mysore Palace at night and the Brindavan Gardens, and meeting wonderful people. But there were also quite a few moments when I felt absolutely exasperated. From what I hear, such drastic contrasts are common to many foreigners’ experiences in India.

Coping with Worry from Afar

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://lmarshallworld.blogspot.com

I am writing this on the three hour ferry ride from Ko Tao to Chumpon so I don't throw up.
"Did you say something to upset my girlfriend, man?" asked the red-cheeked Brit, leaning dangerously into Daniel's face. "You looking to fight?"
"IS-RAY-ELLL!!" hollered Daniel, throwing his dreadlocked head back. All of a sudden, thirty bare-chested Israeli former soldiers surrounded him, arms crossed in bodyguard stance.
The shaking Brit extended his hand tremulously. "Sorry, mate. Have a good night."
Daniel was recounting this story from last night to me as we sat with Dov on his bungalow porch. The rain smashed down behind our drying laundry, the smell of the cheap detergent mixing with the muddy dogs and ocean. "This shows you," Daniel declared, "How Israelis will always be there for each other. The army trains us to protect each other, and we always will." He gestured towards his golden-skinned, tattooed friend to his side. "I didn't even know this man, but when I got shot in Gaza during a patrol, Dov didn't think twice; he lifted my heavy body over his shoulder and dragged me all the way to safety. I owe him my life."
"No problem," said Dov, grinning angelically. "Now give me one of your cigarettes."

I was feeling awfully glum the past few days, and was thankful as heck for the kindness of my ancestral people this night. Ko Tao, paradise that it is, turns out to be Couple Zone during low season, and I have a bit of a hard spot (is that the opposite of soft spot?) for Couple Zones. Basically, from Wednesday to Thursday I didn't talk to a single soul, barring the masseuse who gave me the most lovely first Thai Massage of my life possible, the woman who sold me Henry Miller's freaking fantastic "Tropic of Cancer", and two or three waitresses. I need my alone time, hardcore, but after two days, you want a chat.
On top of this, I had managed to freak out several loved ones at home with an article I published about wandering the Thai jungle. Let this be known loud and clear: I exaggerate to high heaven, and I am-- I promise-- smart, even including Jungle Smart smart. There was TRULY no need for my dearies to fret, but they did. Being an extremely empathetic person, the long-distance worry directed my way was making me feel sick to my stomach, and I cradled my Diet Coke like a stuffed animal as I looked up at my Israeli support system. "I just feel so sad that I made my Mother worry," I mumbled. "I'm fine, and I am taking care of myself, and I want her to be fine, too!"

Dov took a puff of his cigarette. "I don't know what to tell you about that, because my Mother had to worry for three years while I was forced to be in the army." "Mine too," said Daniel. "Eventually they just have to get over it and trust."
"When I was a child," Dov mused, "My parents used to tell me, 'Don't worry-- by the time you are eighteen the war will be over and you won't have to go in the army.' It was a lie. I had to fight. We all did. It was a black spot in my life, and I wish it didn't happen. And yet, though now we know the war will go on at least forty more years, we have to maintain hope. I will also tell my own children: 'Don't worry-- by the time you are eighteen the war will be over and you won't have to go in the army.' I will lie to maintain hope."

Daniel was staring out at the lights through the rain. "She shouldn't worry anyway. This is NOTHING compared to India. This is so plastic and easy and developed."
Daniel had just emerged from a life-alteringly (mind-alteringly?) phenomenal five months around India, and was furious to be in silk-smooth Thailand. "In India," he growled, "when we have electricity, it is like 'Oh happy day!' "
His eyes became even more distant. "I had a rabbit in India. An angora rabbit. I called her Shiva. Her body was maybe the size of my fist, but with her hair she was the size of beach ball. I carried her everywhere and she loved me."

I started laughing, deep and warm, at the image of the giant fluffball cradled serenely in Daniel's giant, dark-skinned hands, being carted for five months from Kashmir to Bombay and all points between.
"I go in six months to South Africa to sell hummus at the World Cup," continued Daniel, ignoring my hysterical laughing. "I think I make maybe $20,000 in three months, easy. Hummus with egg will be more expensive. Maybe then I get a new pet to help me."
"What happened to the rabbit?" I asked between breathless giggles. My mood was lifting, buoyed by the cosy porch and the puffball white image.

"I met a bunch of kids when I volunteered at a school at the end of my time in India. When I saw them with Shiva, I knew I would leave her with them and she would be well cared for."
"Do you worry about her?" I asked, concerned myself.
"No," he said confidently, "She is happy."

Piadina in Ferrara

By Megan
 
Earlier in my trip to Italy, my travel buddy and I met up with her Italian friend she had met in the USA.  He picked us up at the train station, and spent the day showing us around his home town, Ferrara.  I thought my home town was lovely, but his has a castle.  According to our host, the Castello Estense is the oldest castle in Europe still surround by water- quite the moat, if I do say so.  Another fantastic building is the Palazzo dei Diamanti- a villa covered by an exterior of patterned diamond shapes, one rumored to be a real, gigantic diamond.
It is also known as a city of bicycles, with 3.5 bikes for every one person.  Other highlights include the impressive medieval walls, the church turned porno movie theatre, and the longest street in Italy with out any shops.  Oh, and how could I forget- the PIADINA!
In Spain, it was pretty easy to explain that I just didn't eat meat because I didn't like it.  But Italy was another matter entirely, and it wasn't just because of the language barrier.  "How can you not eat meat? Don't you get sick?"  or my personal favorite, "What's wrong with you?  Meat is so good."  Well guys, I still don't eat meat, and although some may beg to differ, there is nothing 'wrong' with my habit.

Our lovely host (featured in last week's article- The Five People You'll Meet in Barcelona)

Anyway, our kind host took us to his favorite bar to get a necessary bite to eat before continuing on our tour of the region.  He repeatedly reminded us of the importance of these lovely sandwiches, which sounded better and better the hungrier we became.  The 'chef' extraordinaire repeatedly told me that he didn't know how to make a piadina without meat, and then reluctantly served me a veggie filled, sauce drowning wonder, which I ate reassuring him that it was perfect (although thoughts may have gone to more tasty wonderlands...).  Vegetarianism in Europe garners some interesting reactions.

The rest of the visit was spent driving to and walking around in Bologna, a city with quite the sense of humor (see photo to the right) and a nutella themed cafe.  Heaven?  Maybe, maybe not, but it made me miss Barcelona all the more.  However, on the train ride back to our hostel outside of Venice, I realized that regardless of the apparent confusion over a meatless existence, Italy was a magical place.
Next Week: Another late night in Italy- Catalan Angels in Milan

Beating the Autumn Slump

By Steph
 
The days are getting colder as winter grows closer. The sun seems to be avoiding you as it sleeps a little longer every morning, and heads to bed a little earlier every night. There is an extra hour of sleep which is good, but still the warmth of the sun is waning. Each day eats at your motivation to  crawl out of your warm bed, and heightens the cravings for warm, seemingly uplifting comfort foods that mom used to make you in the winter. Hearty stews, meaty lasagna, warm chocolate chip cookies, melt in your mouth macaroni and cheeeeeeese! All delicious concoctions, but when combined with the unmotivated days of the Autumn slump, they can add up and become a recipe for waistline disaster.

During this time of year the most important thing to do is stay active. Yeah, yeah, I know, this is much easier to say than it is actually convince yourself to do it. If you don’t already have some extra layers, head to the store and start piecing together your winter armor. Do some research and see what’s going to work best for you for your activity of choice. If you’re going to vary your activity and have some days where you go to the gym and others where you’ll brave the outdoors for an occasional jog or bike ride, consider gearing up at Target® where I’ve found dozens of amazing Champion® sports bras, CoolMax® shirts and  pants for great low prices. A few new winter workout items will help boost your slouchy motivation and get you moving in the right direction (to the gym! J).

It’s also important to stay on track. If you’re having trouble sticking to your workout and diet goals, I highly recommend starting a journal. I hesitated about starting one because I was afraid of becoming annoyingly neurotic about it, but what I’ve found is the exact opposite. Keeping a daily journal allows you to log your progress, and instead of lingering on the few bumps you hit along the way, it encourages you to keep eating right and to challenge yourself at the gym.

The most important thing you can do for yourself during this holiday season is to "Just Say No" to sloppy seconds.  It’s so easy to get off track with the oodles of feasts to be had during the holidays. The best thing you can do is to listen to your body and stay away from a second dose of unneeded, calorie-loaded filler foods. Still hungry after round one? Give your body a few minutes to capture everything you’ve just eaten. Then, if you really are still hungry, head back to the table and grab a few quality cal foods: Some lean turkey, some nuts or olives, and a nutrient rich veggie like broccoli. Your body will thank you later for giving it some much needed nourishment, versus an unwanted cookie induced  sugar coma.

How Dany's Playlist Covers the Ups and Downs of Feminism

By Beth
 
It is my third day in Sao Tome e Principe and already I feel like I have a family. I am very lucky to be able to say this. Dany decides to take me to explore the north coast today. He loves driving Ned's pick-up truck, cruising through the city streets at nearly 80km per hour. Without speed limits, we are free to ride the wind as we plunge from the city center to forests thick with banana trees, to shantytowns up in the mountains, to dry, vast meadows overlooking the disturbingly blue ocean.

We roll the windows down and drive, bounding over potholes and puddles, seatbelts off, free to live, free to die (on my first day I was made fun of so much for wearing a seatbelt that I promptly stopped. Apparently it's just not the Santomense way). The CD Dany plays is usually some mix of Sao Tome radio's best- mainly thick Kizomba beats from Cape Verde and Brazil. The first song is titled “I Need a Girlfriend”. For the past three days I have listened to this song with zeal, as the verses are sung with in densely African Portuguese but the phrases repeat in English. It's a cute song: “I need a girlfriend, a freakin' girlfriend, I need a girlfriend” and then something about how that girlfriend should be the woman that this man is singing to, I believe. I listen to it and smile at the vulnerability that this man presents to his future girlfriend. The urgent need for someone that he can love and protect. A need that isn't necessarily communicated, as I have seen, from African men. So it's nice to hear something of this flavor.

Until I come to today, that is, when I finally really listen to the bridge, which goes something like, “One girl, two girls, all these shorties ain't enough for me." Then we're back to square one.
Everywhere we drive there are beautiful painted murals with phrases above them. They are, for the most part, socially

A condom-filled tree reminds teens to use protection in order to prevent the spread of HIV and AIDS

conscious publicity tactics: promoting healthy living in hopes that the community will follow suit. A happy couple in bed is surrounded by mosquito nets, condoms dance and smile, babies doddle with syringes next to them (to encourage vaccination) and, my favorite, a cheerful, carefree family of four holds hands, above which it reads something along the lines of, “wouldn't you be happy to be able to give attention to all of your children?”, thus encouraging manageable family sizes. A few minutes down Dany's playlist comes a song  about these two people that send furtive text messages to each other. But the man isn't swayed by these flirtatious messages he receives. “Eu tenho lar, eu tenho filho, eu tenho ma mulher comigo,” he sings. “I have a home, I have a child, I have my wife with me.” There it is. Satisfaction in the nuclear family. The song breathes the spirit of the murals around town.

I bring these two songs up because, as Dany cautiously explained to me over lunch, polygamy is extremely common among Santomense men, and nearly extinct among the women. To each woman, her one man. But to each man, two or three women. And through this a thicket of jealousy grows. And rightly so, I might add. I can't help but ask where the women are when these two male singers indirectly debate the right of women to be treated as treasures, as monogamic entities. Apparently their voices have been taken from them. In these two songs at least.

Yet the irony rocks me. It seems wherever one goes, there are signs pressing the importance of condom use, of monogamy, and of other subject matter. But the numerous children that run through the streets are evidence enough that the murals and the real world here are entire opposites. They could quite possibly encompass entirely different worlds. In fact, the closest I think they have ever really gotten to each other is somewhere around the distance sound covers in four minutes; the length of the song that comes between them on Dany's ever-popular cruising playlist.

49 Hours in Mysore - for Dasara (cont'd)

By Tory
Suddenly alone among the masses in front of Mysore Palace, I put Sharvan’s advice into practice, and saw that strangers’ often intimidating stares instantly gave way to deep smiles, and often led to such questions as “What is your good name?” and “Which is your place?” or alternatively, “Where is your house?” Eventually I got the hang of answering these questions without having to say “What?” too many times.  Jhumpa Lahiri’s novel The Namesake helped me with the good name part, as I remembered the struggle over the names Nikhil and Gogol.
Indeed, the only people I decided it would be wisest not to smile at were the hawkers who swarmed the palace entrance, flying plastic helicopters and playing the Titanic theme unremittingly on their recorders, insisting, “You don’t want, but someone will like!”
Unfortunately, during the three-hour wait in the palace entrance, I broke down and bought some bangles. Their price started at R$300, and I got them for R$100. I felt pretty good about this deal, until they began to break on my wrist in quick succession, and I realized I probably should not have paid more than R$20. I took this as a lesson in bargaining.
Most of the inquiries about my good name and where I stayed came from Keralans. I met a group of Keralan nursing students on a break from their studies in Mysore (and later heard that most nurses in the region are from Kerala); a little Keralan girl dressed like a princess who kindly gave me some peanuts; and finally, a group of friends from northern Kerala who now work in the IT sector in Bangalore. They immediately asked me whom I was staying with; I hesitated, reticent to lie, but then responded, “a friend of a friend,” remembering Sharvan’s unwillingness to broach couchsurfing.com with his friends.

Scenes from the ticket counter. The worst pushing began later, at the entrance to the palace.

Scenes from the ticket counter. The worst pushing began later, at the entrance to the palace.
My new acquaintances let me duck out of line to buy water, which may have saved me from ditching the visit to the palace altogether. They also got me a coveted Indian entrance fee (R$20, rather than R$200), and made me feel less alone in the mob that was pushing to get in the doors when the palace finally opened at 2 PM. In the chaos, I wondered if trampling would begin. Then I looked at who was shoved into me from all sides, and realized I should not worry about myself, but about the many 3- to 7-year-olds moaning on the floor around me. Babies wailed; bamboo batons swung; adults grabbed anyone they could get their hands on to pull themselves to the front; and finally, one of my new Keralan acquaintances, Sachin, pushed me through the entrance and I stumbled up the stairs into the palace. Phew. No trampling scene this time. I checked to see how badly my shirt had been ripped, and decided this was likely a relatively uneventful entrance scene for Mysore Palace at Dasara.
After a couple of hours in the palace and hundreds of photos outside of it, I went in search of a meal with Sachin et al. around 4 PM. Regrettably, the first apparently decent place we found was the rooftop restaurant at Hotel Roopa. The restaurant was overpriced and service was terrible, which seems to be the norm for many restaurants here. We ordered the buffet; most of the tin pots on the table were empty, and the food that remained was quite cold. As I tried to make myself eat some of this expensive but utterly unappetizing meal, I realized that Sharvan had been calling my phone incessantly for the past 15 minutes and I hadn’t heard. I called him and he was stressed out – a new couch surfer had arrived and he didn’t know what to do with her! I told him to bring her to the Hotel, and shortly thereafter, Kasia – a young Polish woman who had recently finished her studies in Liverpool – popped out of the elevator, sat down, and ordered a fish curry. It took an hour to come.
Kasia provided “joyful company,” as Sharvan later put it, and together with the Keralans we set out together to visit Mysore’s famous fruit and vegetable market, where I enjoyed seeing the colorful powders on sale for Dasara and the men lighting candles around their stalls as a prayer for improved business (or so I was told).  From there we went to see the palace lit up, which was a spectacular sight. We alternated between taking photos and people watching, as our fellow visitors struck interesting poses all around us. Indeed, multiple times during the weekend I felt like I was taking part in one giant photo shoot.

Finally we moved on to Mysore’s Beer Garden, a nearby restaurant with pleasant balcony seating where the crowd suddenly became decidedly blonder. We ordered some Kingfishers, and soon Sharvan – ever the conscientious host – began calling again, and arrived with a friend to take me and Kasia home.
To be continued next week!

Free Stuff!!!

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://lmarshallworld.blogspot.com

I'm no moocher, but-- oh wait, I totally am. :) But the reality is that I have eight months of travel ahead and limited savings. Now, thanks to the amazing kindness of old and new friends along my first month's path, I have been able to save loads of loot. Every day in Thailand so far I've spent about $30: $12 for housing, $14 for food and water, and $4 for transport and entertainment. On top of this, however, I've gotten about $5-$20 of free stuff each day-- usually food, entertainment, and transportation. Huh? How??? Here are some tips.
1. Be a guide.
I mopily trudged through the hideous, far port town where my cab driver had kicked me out, screaming: "beach you want is too far! Cost $300 Baht ($10) more!" Suddenly I heard two Scottish brogues musing, "I think we're in Haad Rin now, and if we just drive over here we'll get to--" "You're not in Haad Rin!" I laughed, joining the gentlemen at their unwieldy green map, "You're 11 kilometers away in the port town of Thong Sala!"

The three of us had a lovely (geographically orienting) chat, and turned out the fellows were going to the same beach as I originally desired, and then were driving across the island right back to near my hotel. Yes! We bopped fantastically all over Ko Phan gan for the next six hours, then I helped them find a great hotel, and introduced them to a fresh clan of buddies.
In exchange, I won $20 worth of transportation (and a hilarious free trip to a bone-dry waterfall), a fully paid-for shrimp curry dinner (I protested but they insisted on treating), and two awesome new buddies. Hip hop hooray! :)
2. Befriend short-term travelers.
Unlike eight-month voyagers (woot woot!) who have to seriously long-term scrimp and save, short term vacationers have allotted gobs of money for two weeks of pure enjoyment. If you help them make those two weeks a rollicking good time, they will help you stretch your budget.
3. Be a matchmaker.

What helps travellers have a rollicking good time? Love! If you befriend a mix of both genders, then each will deeply appreciate you merging the two. Free food will fly fast and furious as you introduce the English women to the German men :)
4. . Be a therapist.

T'was overheard today: "Everyone traveling is running away from something, or towards something." Listen: at first they don't want to talk about it, but then they do. One of my favorite things about this trip so far has been listening to the amazing and often shocking stories of the folks I've met. I hope hope hope that I've been able to dole out enough heart, support, and advice to merit the way folks have opened up.
5. Be a woman.
In general, American men aren't very macho/chivalrous, but most Earth is. Fight it all you want, but there is something awfully sweet about getting a little princess treatment with your fellow females, simply cause we are ladies!

Now for a Major Disclaimer: I am a huge moocher, so true, but it is NEVER my intention to be an evil gold-digging "let me take advantage of this person" beast. It is also not my intention to encourage travellers (specifically female types) to put themselves in bad or victimized positions. Rather, I wrote this article to point out the ways that travellers can happily and respectfully enact exchanges. It's a good thing! It's a nice thing! It happens! Embrace it! :)

How Not to Fly with Children

By Emily
Children can be wonderful. They have unique perspectives and personalities, they're the sweetest creatures on Earth when they want to be, and Heaven knows they say the darnedest things. But after several years of flying between my home in New Hampshire and my student life in Utah, I have learned to avoid the pesky little buggers like the plague. On flights, that is. If you are flying with your own children, boy does my heart go out to you! But if you don't have any children of your own, you'd be wise to stay as far away from them on airplanes as you possibly can. This may seem a bit harsh. "Why on Earth would I avoid such charming creatures!" you may be asking. And even if you share my children-on-plane-o-phobia, you're probably wondering how you can even attempt to avoid them. Either way, you're in luck, because I am about to answer those very questions.

The Problem with Kids:

As delightful as kids can be, there are two main problems I've encountered when children are nearby on my plane flights. The first (and probably the most obvious) is that they can be unbearably loud, especially infants. Many parents bring infants and small children on overnight flights, assuming their children will sleep through the flight and save everyone a lot of trouble. The problem is, in my experience kids are even less likely to fall asleep on an airplane at night. The flight takes off, their ears pop, they start crying, and next thing you know the poor things are too tired and cranky to fall asleep. The problem only gets worse when you sit in a section where there are lots of babies. When one starts crying, the others usually follow, and if you have sensitive hearing you're likely to spend the entire flight with a splitting headache, desperately wishing you'd had the luck to sit elsewhere.

The other major problem I've encountered is that kids are just too gosh darn cute to say no to, and their parents often expect fellow passengers to accommodate their children's whims. In fact, I have never once sat in the same row as a kid, without his or her parent rushing to get onto the plane first, plopping the kid in my seat, and then asking with a sweet voice "you don't mind letting a little kid take the window seat, do you?" And as mean I'm trying to sound in this post, even I can't say no to that. So even though I always specifically request a window seat, I usually end up caving in.

Maybe this doesn't sound so bad to you,and I realize I may sound a little heartless by encouraging you to avoid children with so much zeal, but let me tell you how children and their parents destroyed a five-hour red-eye flight for me. On this flight I had to change my seat twice because of children. First I got to my window seat and found a little girl sitting in it. Her mother used loaded terms like "cute little girl," when she asked me to give up the seat, and the way she phrased it was more a rhetorical question than anything else. First she asked if I'd prefer an aisle seat, and when I said no, I'd prefer my window seat, she said, "oh, well you wouldn't mind trading seats with a cute little girl, would you? She really wants to look out the window. You wouldn't mind, would you?" And, come on, who could say no to that?

Unfortunately, in the very row across from us there was a young family. The parents had two babies and a little boy. They had paid for only three seats, since the babies were both sitting in their laps. Unfortunately, though, each row only had four oxygen masks, making it unsafe for five people to sit in one row. The flight attendant insisted one of the parents would have to take one of the babies and sit elsewhere. They still wanted to sit near each other so they could help each other out of course, but everyone else sitting that region of the plane seemed to be sitting with a child of their own. Finally the flight attendant asked me if I could move. This time I wasn't just being nice - the plane could not take off until someone agreed to switch, and there was nowhere else for me to move since the flight was full.

Don't get me wrong - I had done a good thing, and if I were faced with that choice again, I'd again trade seats. But I spent the entire red-eye flight in an aisle seat, in the very back row of the plane. A young father, a baby, and a little boy sat on one side of me. Right across from me in the other aisle, the mother and the baby sat. She and her husband handed bags, snacks, diapers and coloring books back and forth across me all evening. I tried to look on the bright side by reminding myself I'd have an easier time getting out of my seat to use the restroom. Instead, we were so far back in the plane that someone brushed against me every time they tried to use the restroom, so I couldn't sleep. When I did need to use the restroom, the line was so long and the aisle so narrow that it was impossible for me to get out of my seat and walk to the back of the line. Honestly, it was a night from Hell.

Convinced? If not, go ahead and sit next to the next little demon in pigtails you see. Be fooled by the crayons, the missing tooth, and the giggles. But if you're starting to see the light, here's my advice:

1. DO NOT SIT IN THE BACK OF THE PLANE. Seriously - parents usually sit there so they can be near the restroom, so you're choosing the noisiest section.

2. Get to your seat as soon as possible, especially if you're stuck sitting in the back. That can help you avoid the awkward dilemma of either giving up your seat or asking a child to move when she's already sat down with her coloring book and markers. Trust me, you don't want to wind up in that position.

3. Get as early a boarding group as you can if you're on a flight that doesn't do reservations, like Southwest. With Southwest, you usually get an excellent boarding position by checking in online 24 hours in advance. And then, if after half the flight has already boarded you discover that you're sitting in baby zone even though you did your best to avoid it, don't be afraid to take advantage of the unassigned seats and get up and move. It will be a slight inconvenience, and it may look rude, but if it saves you from hours of painful headaches, it's worth it.

4. Be prepared - sometimes you're stuck with noisy neighbors and can't do anything but adjust. Have earplugs, headphones, aspirin, and anything else that will help.

5. Say no to cuteness. It's ok and even admirable to be flexible in order to help someone else out, but if the parents of the child are really just using underhanded tricks to try to get you to give up your seat, it's probably ok to stand firm and say "sorry, but I really do need that seat." Even if the little girl or little boy is the most adorable thing since the Gerber baby.

Ignore my advice if you must, but be prepared for the noise and the cuteness. Both will happen, you can be sure of that.

Caution: Live Animal!

10.19.09

Dear Diary,

Since I wrote last, I've finally found some answers. No, not the be-all-and-end-all answers to the Great Question of life, the universe, and everything, but the answers about how to travel with a pet. Finally, the internet gods (or at least Google) have rewarded my quest for information! Here are some things to know, to all those ladies in the audience who plan to cart their hapless pets with them in their adventures around the world.

Before we begin, be aware! Your pet will most likely need to be at least three months old before you can travel with her, unless you're able to get special permission from the government at your destination.

So here's my scrapped-together checklist.

First: at bare minimum, your pet will need to have had its basic vaccines a minimum of 30 days before you leave. For cats and dogs this means rabies vaccinations, and for all other animals, it means...whatever your other small animal normally gets at a regular vet visit. Animals that qualify as livestock, such as horses, are completely off my radar and therefore I can't help you.

Second: "bare minimum" only suffices for certain travel. Assuming that you're coming from the US, you'll probably need to do more than the bare minimum if your travels will take you beyond Canada. Many countries are concerned about fleas or ticks, distemper in cats and heart worms in dogs, and pet identification. Since some of these treatments take time, be ready to start treatment a few months before you leave.

It ain't always in English, of course.

If you're traveling to any country in the European Union, you'll be filling out one of two forms: Form EU 998, or a Blue Passport. The Passport is primarily for animals whose owners live in the EU or who will be traveling between EU countries; Form 998 is for those who are coming from non-EU "Third Countries" and who have one destination for their pets. As long as these forms are properly filled out and accompany you and your pet through customs, you shouldn't need to quarantine your pet unless that's a requirement for your specific country (i.e. the United Kingdom).
Here's a note: I recommend checking that list of Third Countries before you do your paperwork, because the hoops you must jump through are partially determined by which Third Country you're coming from!

So now let's say you've picked a country to travel to. For the sake of example, I'll pick Germany, because that's where I'm actually going. Your next step is to call the Vet-in-Charge in your state and harass the hell out of them until they give you what you want: paperwork. For me, it took four phone calls to the Harrisburg office before the administrative assistant, in a fit of pity, emailed me a ten-page packet of documentation and sample forms and a checklist. All of that work, the stress and the calls, amounted to three sheets of paper that I actually needed to fill out, and seven that I barely needed to glance at.

As it turns out, a cat traveling to Germany needs only a record of recent rabies vaccinations, a special rabies test, and a microchip or tattoo.

I have to admit, this is a lot less complicated than I expected. All that needed to be done was to bring the cat to the vet and have her blood drawn (which absolutely thrilled her, I can assure you), and show them the forms to be filled out. They, in turn, send her blood to Kansas State University to do the special rabies test, and fill out most of the paperwork in the meantime. When the test comes back from KSU, the paperwork gets mailed to the Vet-in-Charge for the state, who signs and seals it and mails it back. Ta-da!

To summarize thus far: when traveling with a pet, be ready for vaccinations and special blood tests and paperwork. Call the Vet-in-Charge to get the paperwork, and read through everything at Europa to find out what requirements are in place for US-to-EU pet transfers.
Take a deep breath- you're almost done with the hard part! Now let's talk the actual travel experience.

*GROAN*

Getting your pet from Point A to Point B is going to be difficult, no matter what you do. Carrier size and quality and type, ground temperatures, water and food, accidents, and of course pet stress are all challenges to be ready to meet. I'll offer my disclaimer now: I haven't actually brought my cat from Philadelphia to Kaiserslautern yet, so I don't know how well the theory will apply in practice! But here's my checklist for day-of travel anyway.

First, your pet needs to be in a carrier in which it can stand up, lie down, and turn around with relative ease. There must also be sufficient ventilation space on at least three of the sides so the carrier can be packed and not suffocate the animal. Traveler's Pet Corner has a great diagram for this, as well as links to the USDA requirements for pet carriers. As a precaution, make extra copies of your travel documents and attach them to your carrier, and write your contact information (and the contact information for your destination) in permanent marker on the carrier.

Kitty doesn't go in here.

Second, consider your pet's size, weight, and type, and start researching airline companies. If you want to bring your pet in the cabin with you, s/he and the carrier combined can't weigh more than 18 pounds, and most airlines prohibit carriers larger than 55 x 40 x 20 cm. Basically, your pet needs to be able to fit comfortably under the seat in front of you and not in the overhead compartment. Also, bear in mind that many US-based airline companies (including United and American Airlines) won't allow you to bring a pet in the cabin on any overseas flights. I'm flying with Lufthansa, which is a German airline and doesn't care.

A heads up: most airlines limit the number of pets allowed on their flight to seven, and most airlines charge your pet as "excess baggage" if checked or a special pet fee if brought into the cabin. To bring my cat to Germany, I have to pay an extra $200 on my ticket (owch!) and reserve her spot at least six weeks in advance.

Third: if your pet can't be carried in the cabin with you, temperature will affect whether your pet can come on the trip at all! Federal regulations prohibit checking pets into the plane's cargo hold if the ground temperature at any stop on your itinerary will be below 45 F (7.2 C). They make exceptions for pets that are accompanied by veterinary documents saying that the pet is used to cold temperatures (all Alaskan Husky owners rejoice!), but 25 F (-3.9 C) is the absolute cutoff. If you're hoping to travel North in the dead of winter, make other arrangements for Fluffy.

Fourth: for accidents, stress, and eating, your best bet is to get your pet as used to her/his carrier as possible. Airlines are highly discouraged from flying animals that have been sedated, because of the effects of cabin pressure on sedated brains, so you can't have that as a fallback. My vet recommended that I start carrying the cat in her carrier with me everywhere I go, just to get her used to spending time in it. So far, I'm the laughingstock of my township, and the cat's taken to sprinting whenever she needs to pass the carrier, just in case I get the idea of shoving her in it and dragging her around with me.
If stress isn't your concern but accidents are, many pet supply stores sell absorbent liners that are designed to be soft, comfy, and disposable when your pet inevitably lets loose. Some soft carriers, for pets that are going in the plane cabin, actually have special pouches for you to carry extra liners in. Be forewarned, though, that pets can't be let out of their carriers at any point in time when they're in the airport or on the plane, so get used to changing the liner with the carrier door mostly shut.

Finally, for food and water, most websites recommend freezing some water in a dish for your pet and putting it in the carrier with them, and giving them a dish of dry food before you check them (or before you get on the plane) if you feel you have to feed them. I have no idea how the frozen water trick interacts with TSA's three ounce rule, so I'll have to let you know if that applies to cabin-bound pets as well as those who are checked.

To summarize yet again: pets need to go in secure containers with enough room to move around and plenty of ventilation. They can't fly when it's too cold at any point on your itinerary, unless they're small enough to go in the cabin with you, and if you're flying overseas, call your airline and ask them about their arrangements for pets. Make sure your carrier has extra copies of documents and contact information on it, so airline personnel can be in touch with you easily. Get your pet used to the carrier before they travel, since they can't be sedated for the trip, and check your local supply store for liners, travel dishes, and any other accoutrements you think may be necessary to keep your pet fed, watered, and dry for the journey.

Phew. That's a lot. Not nearly as much as it seemed when I was first checking it out, but still...a lot! If you're not going to Europe, and/or you have questions that I didn't answer, go to Pet Travel and see what information and links they can provide. And, of course, nothing beats the Feds- APHIS, part of the Department of Agriculture, will give you the nitty-gritty in incomprehensible and complex language.

Next tasks: learn German overnight (subliminal messaging, anyone?), get licensed (oh, the bureaucracy!), and learn about destination (the Autobahn isn't just a road in Germany...or is it?).

-Erica

Nothing and Everything

By Lisa
Some days, nothing much happens.
August 26, 2004.  I woke from strange dreams involving campgrounds and serial killers when my mother poked her head in the door of my old bedroom and asked, “What time do you need me to wake you up?”
It was a big day.  I was leaving on my adventure: a solo road trip around the United States.  The fact that I was doing this on my own, for the next six weeks, with a sketchy route plan, amazed everyone – especially me.  I had always pretended to enjoy spontaneous adventure, but not-so-secretly I liked schedules and lots of planning.  I had always talked about wanting to see the world on my own, but somehow, something always came up to get me out of actually doing it.  You know the refrain: “I would love to do it, I just can’t,” followed by a shake of the head, apparent regret masking relief.
This time the excuses had evaporated.  I had a couple of months of absolute freedom between taking the bar exam and starting my law firm job.  I had a good car, a little money saved and a great job lined up.  There was a nagging voice (an ex-boyfriend) asking me, “When are you ever going to have this chance again?”
I had to do it.  My reputation as a fun-loving, independent woman who made her own life happen – the reputation that fooled even me sometimes – was on the line.
To drown out my internal dialogue about whether I was capable of spending six weeks by myself, pitching a tent, and dealing with car trouble, I planned.  I researched cities, National Parks, driving times.  I called friends all over the country to see if they’d be around when I thought I might drive through.  In the end, I had a rough plan that would get me from Rhode Island to parts previously unknown and back again.
After breakfast, it was time to go.  I was an hour later than I had “planned,” due to lingering over coffee. I was delaying departure.  I was nervous.  It didn’t matter, I rationalized, because I didn’t have anywhere to be.  My first destination was Chicago, which I would reach on the second day.
I said goodbye to my parents.  “Call when you get there,” my mom shouted, waving, as I got into the car.  “Where is there?” I asked.  She shrugged, and waved again.  “Wherever you get.”
Around the corner, I stopped for gas.  A full tank of gas is important, I told myself, as I pumped perhaps a gallon into the recently filled tank.  I wandered into the station store, poked around at the snack foods.  When the cashier started watching me with suspicion, I got back into my car.  I turned the key in the ignition.  I didn’t have to go, I told myself.
I shushed my doubtful internal voice with some self-taunting (“what, are you scared?”) and took Rte. 95 out of Rhode Island and across Connecticut.  This part of the journey was easy; I had traveled it many times to and from New York.  I cut around New York City, buzzed through New Jersey, and sailed into Pennsylvania.  I listened to George Carlin and U2 at top volume.  I got stuck in horrendous standstill traffic on Rte. 80 in Pennsylvania.  I ate the lunch I had packed, and munched on goldfish crackers.  And as the miles – and hours – ticked by, the temptation to turn around and head to the safety of home slowly seeped away.
Thirteen hours later, when I pulled into a Comfort Inn (that I hadn’t known existed until I saw it from the highway) in Youngstown, Ohio (a town I had never heard of), nothing much had happened.  I hadn’t seen anything exciting or met any interesting characters.
And yet…even with all that hadn’t happened, what I felt that night in Ohio was not bored, or lonely, or anxious, or doubtful.  I felt energized, excited.
Free.
I think it’s because I sensed what was around the corner.  The day nothing much happened was a preamble to many days of wonder and discovery.  On that day, I didn’t just drive 600 miles; I also took a crucial first step.  Now, five years later, I can’t imagine my life without regular solo travel, and letting the winds take me where they will.
Some days, nothing much happens…and everything changes.

Two Cappuccinos, Hold the Catcalls

by Megan

Due cappuccini, per favore.

It may seem obvious, but a quiet train station in Turin, Italy at midnight is rather unsettling when all you know in Italian is, "Two cappuccinos, please," and a few choice curse words.  Not only that, but I was out of euros on my cellphone, waiting for a friend who was thirty minutes late, and surrounded by men who lived up to the catcalling stereotype of Italian men.  When she finally arrived with our two gracious hosts, one rather enamored with the idea of me, and the other, a pop-diva aficionado- both Turkish engineers- I couldn't help but laugh at the beauty of the situation.

Toto, we aren't in Venice any more

That morning, I'd left Venice for Trieste, a seaport city in northeastern Italy, famous for it's Austro-Hungarian past.  The first thing I noticed when stepping off the train was the city's stunningly different architecture contrasted against the confined canals of Venice I had walked away from earlier that morning.  There was a hush hum from people coming and going, child or brief case in hand.  On the advice of a well intending station manager who tried very hard to speak with me in Spanish (Italian eventually took over, and I held on to any word I understood like a two-year-old to her blanket), I took a walking tour of the city streets and plazas.
My lunch consisted of nuts, cookies and a gigantic bottle of fizzy water, after accidentally ordering a ham sandwich, of which I only ate the bread (I really tried to nibble of the meat, but I just couldn't do it).  Afterwards, I caught a bus leading out of the city, towards Miramare, to see the castle the station manager told me was a must see, or at least, that's what I thought he was trying to tell me.  The bus driver and I couldn't understand each other, so I eventually jumped off the bus where I thought the castle might be near.  By this point, I only had two hours to catch the last train from Trieste at 4pm, or I would leave my friend worrying in Turin, so I ran for the water.
Taking plenty of time to dip my feet into the ocean, and enjoying the awesome sight of the bluest water imaginable, I caught my breath.  You could see the bottom of the ocean way out in the deep and the station manager's famed castle gleamed in the warm sun as proud and bright as he described.  I ran three miles along the water, snapping photos as I went, to catch the 36 bus back to the station.  Thankful that my bag was very light, I took my seat on the train.

On the seven hour ride to Turin, a fellow rider drew a picture of me holding a rose and gave it to me before getting off in Milan.  I spent the last two hours scribbling lists, ideas and memories on every scrap of paper around.  In the end, the train station was unpleasant, but sharing my adventure with my travel buddy and hosts helped me forget the catcalls... or maybe it was my host's rendition of Mirah Carey...

Terrified of Portugal

By Beth
 
I am about to reveal one of my biggest secrets: I am absolutely terrified of Portugal.
It might be the end of me to share that. Of Portuguese and Italian heritage, I spent a year living in Portugal in college and learning the language. I've worked in a number of Portuguese establishments since developing my language ability. When I'm in the States, I love hitting up every Portuguese restaurant, pastry shop and everything else that might give me a taste of the homeland. But here I am, back in Portugal, and I am scared to death to even leave my hotel room.

I don't know why, really. I love speaking Spanish to anyone who will listen to me, and my Spanish is terrible. And despite my intense fear of Portugal, I keep coming back. I keep coming back, and then running away. As if someone is going to find me out and banish me from the country forever.

It's strange to have a secret identity. But sometimes when I am in Portugal, I do. I look Portuguese enough to be culturally ambiguous. And when I open my mouth, I am hyper-sensitive to the fact that the person will know exactly where I come from not by my appearance, but by my accent. And for this reason, I do everything I can to mask it. To not speak when I don't need to. To hide in the crowd of Portuguese faces. To walk along the streets knowing exactly where I'm going, taking furtive photographs only when no one is around, to memorize maps in my hotel room before leaving so that I don't even need to glance at them. To practice quick “good afternoon”s and “coffee, please”s so that I won't be taken by surprise. I am like a CIA Agent, a ninja, an investigative journalist that has studied an identity for long enough to be able to act it in energetic spurts.

But recently I have challenged myself with the question of why. Why is it that I can't seem to accept my own identity as a Portuguese-American? Why is it that I feel I must deceive others for as long as I can? Am I embarrassed to be an American? Or am I scared to disappoint people that I don't even know when they realize that I am not one of their own?

Today I ran away from the museum when someone outside asked me something in a thick Sao Miguel accent, and I had no idea what he was saying. I turned right around and went back to my room. I had just gotten outside and I had already had enough. But, God, it feels good to admit it.

48 Hours in Mysore - For Dasara

By Tory

Mysore at Dasara

After only 10 days in India, a weekend visit to Mysore for Dasara served as a bit of a crash course on life in India. It was the first time I was completely on my own, without the constant help and support of my gracious new coworkers and housemates. So, I thought I should write down what I saw.
Short on cash, and with hotels charging extra for the peak season, I decided to try out couch surfing – a site that connects travelers looking for a free place to stay with people who want to host them. Though I have been a member of the site for over a year, I had never “couch surfed” before. Unsure of what I was getting myself into, I reminded myself that at least it was free.
When I got to the Mysore Bus Station early Saturday afternoon, I called my soon-to-be host, Sharvan, a 23-year-old environmental engineer. Sharvan was clearly sleeping when I called, but he repeated that he would pick me up in “five to ten minutes, five to ten minutes”; I later recognized this as his default estimate of how long he would take, regardless of the situation. I wondered if India is like Brazil, where you can count on people drastically underestimating the time that they will take to meet you somewhere – if they meet you at all. Or, maybe Sharvan had just heard this phrase a lot in movies, and out of ease, repeated it. Regardless, it became endearing.
About an hour and a half later Sharvan showed up on his motorbike, and after a confusing fifteen minutes of misunderstandings over our mobile phones, we “converged” – Sharvan’s way of saying “meet up” – and motored off to his apartment in a residential area outside the city.
Along the way, Sharvan immediately proved himself to be an incredibly gracious and dedicated host. He was constantly pointing left and right and explaining the history of various places to me; in the meantime, I stared ahead, terrified of the oncoming traffic to which he seemed oblivious.
When we reached Sharvan’s apartment I took a moment to observe the living conditions and, seeing that there was no soap or water to be had, I realized I would have to get used to feeling dirty for a while.
After showing me some pictures from his “Motorcycle Diaries”-inspired bike trip to Leh, on the Chinese border, Sharvan, who currently seems to pass his days smoking, listening to Eddie Vedder and studying for the CAT (he nervously informed me that he needed to be in the top 99.9 percentile to gain admission), told me that he would call his best friends from his “gang,” and we would all go out. Then he began to hem. I wondered what was up. He said, “Well, these are friends but I am not very close to them,”  – but aren’t they from the “gang”? – “…So, I cannot tell them about couch surfing. So we will tell them we met at the beach some months ago.” He told me the beach name, but after asking him to repeat it ten times I gave up on remembering it. I had been wondering about how socially acceptable it would be here for a young man to host a hitherto unknown young woman in his home after getting in touch online. Sharvan’s beach story answered that question. Luckily, his friends did not interrogate me, so, I was spared the guaranteed awkwardness of attempting to repeat the name of the beach where we’d met many months ago and become fast friends.
I quickly realized how lucky I was to be with Sharvan and his gang, rather than in a hotel. They took me to a wonderful lunch “joint,” where in spite of my resolute insistence on paying, they treated me to a perfect lunch of idlies with sambar. “You are our guest,” they echoed. In India, I have realized that this seemingly limitless hospitality is common, at least in the South. I wonder if this is the same in the North, where I have heard the culture is quite different.
After lunch we scooted around the city, visiting the majestic (and they tell me affordable) Lalitha Mahal Palace Hotel, the kaleidoscopic musical fountain at Brindavan Gardens, and finally Chamundi Hill, where we got a beautiful view of the city all lit up for Dasara, and I watched the cows make a feast of the lavish floral arrangements on the cars in the parking lot.

Brindavan Gardens, and cows finishing up their dinner of Dasara wreaths on Chamundi Hill

My fellow visitors in all of these places were, in themselves, a delight to behold. Most families were quite done up; the colors of their outfits exquisitely complemented the colors of the fountains at Brindavan Gardens. To my surprise, some families asked to take pictures with me. My host explained that many people from rural south India only venture out of their tiny villages to celebrate Dasara in Mysore; the sight of a foreigner is therefore extremely rare for them.
Later, after a stop for a late night chicken-and-roti dinner at Café Biryani (a very good restaurant, with the fastest service I have had so far in India), Sharvan dropped me off at the room so that I could “take rest,” and he left to “booze with the gang.” I confirmed at this point that there was no water except some that was left over in a bucket. I gave a bucket bath my best effort, and slept.
The next morning Sharvan arrived around 9:30 AM. After he eagerly showed me a bit of “Into the Wild” – another inspirational movie, he said, except for the ending – he said we would “do one thing”: he would drop me off early at Mysore Palace, so that I could be a tourist and he could avoid the crowd. He informed me I would be the “perfect tourist, roaming around alone,” and therefore gave me a wonderful piece of advice: smile at everyone.
...To be continued next week!

Magical Hidden Beaches of Ko Phan gan

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://lmarshallworld.blogspot.com

You are minding your business on the dirty town center beach, climbing jagged rock faces to try to get to the first of the pristine hidden beaches of Ko Phan gan which are tucked miles apart, wedged behind the rockin' town, accessible only by boat or jungle trek. You are getting extremely sweaty, dirty, and persecuted by weird dog packs.

Suddenly: "You want water taxi?" says the Thai man, holding up a map of the thirty hidden beaches.
"I'd love one," you say, "but I only brought a little money today."
"No problem," he smiles. "I find more girls, then I find men to pay for you."

Before I could say, "Wha--" I was suddenly in a gorgeous longtailed boat with two very nice British lasses, a French personal trainer, and a Spanish restaurant owner. Yes, we were a VERY good-looking boat. (Um, VERY.)

For the next six hours we explored so many gorgeous hidden beaches, I nearly cried with delight. AGHHHHHH!!!! Feast upon the pictures and feel the soft, warm green water and fluffy white sand!!! AGHHHH!!!!!!! Henceforth, if I feel stressed and need to go to a "happy place", these beaches will swirl to mind and hug me happy :) May they do the same for you!

(And, yes, I recognize the peril of women accepting free things simply because we are women, but in this particular case, my sketchball radar was in fine form and it worked out for me and my British lady friends a-ok fantastic. Traveling as a solo female has enough stresses; let's celebrate the boons!!)