Category — Traveling

Each day is pulled along into the next by the tendons.. I shake myself awake in the morning, get up, start skating on marble, throwing oatmeal into pots and draping clothes on their fragile fibers on the clotheslines.

In other words, we are busy.

I was very touched by my mother’s confidence in me in the comment section of the last post. “Did you make that boat?” she asked.

She asked. Although I have never to her knowledge constructed a boat. No time like the present! Perhaps Rae has taken up boat crafting! she thought tenderly. And why not?  Maybe I will.

No, the boat was one of these:

They are traditional Goan fishing boats, made of mango wood, and built with a sewing method and wood pegs. The technique is probably over a thousand years old.

It was a treat to be out in one.

Those are some huts.

I was headed out on a dolphin trip; a beautifully touristy event that I have never taken part in before. But when I was on my writing vacation, and a man approached me in the evening on the beach, asking if I wanted to go, I thought- why not?

So I arrived and the two fishermen who took me out pushed the boat into the water. I stood around looking helpless, until it was time to jump in. I didn’t want the boat to land on my foot or their feet or something.

The kids and I have learned that those wooden things are very similar to what they built the pyramids with. Although I think the Egyptian ones rolled. I’m not sure. Rolling ones would be hard in the sand, I think.

Fascinating boat detail:

The sun came up. (I had to meet them at the boat before sunrise.)

“Over there!” he cried!  “Dolphins!”

They kept laughing at me because I was missing the jumping dolphins. I finally saw a couple, but I didn’t get any pictures.

Just pictures like this:

And this:

You just can’t stop staring, though.  They’re just so beautiful.

Wait, here’s our guy again.

Let’s see another picture of him.

When I went to take the picture of them, they got very serious. This is the Goan Fisherman Serious Picture Face. As though they hadn’t been mocking me the whole time. “Eleven jumping dolphins and you only looking three times! Ha!”

Oh. This is a big fishing boat.

And these are some cool rocks.

And that’s all. Dolphin trips. Not only for people who can spot dolphins!

Leafy is overwhelmed with delight.  He won’t stop hugging me. All of his favorite coconut trees gathered around in our yard, to greet him.

There is a new gate and driveway and a concrete courtyard at our house.  It is a vast improvement. There is also a lot of fungus and mold to deal with, which is not a vast improvement.  I’m a little overwhelmed by all that I need to get done.  But one step at a time is a good pace.

Cultural transition feels a bit to me like playing Memory.  You turn a card over, hoping it will match the card you already have, the one with your homeland stamped on it.  It never matches.  Maybe you squint for a moment, through the light in a certain forest, or at a particular stone formation, but then, no, it’s not the same card.  The trees are shaped differently, and the light hits them in a funny way.  It is not your forest, after all.

It is beautiful to see new things, again and again, but it can be a little disconcerting.  It is a very long game of Memory, and you are never winning.

More than the beauty or the sense of welcome from the people here, the thing that strikes me about returning to Goa is that I am finally finding matching cards.  The first card is not the homeland card, it is last year, when we had Solo, or when we researched dolphins, or when we bought the bread from the breadman with the squeaky horn.

I turn them over and they match and it is bliss. I’m almost as delighted as Leafy. 

(It will be a while before we get an internet connection, which is not bliss.  Until then, I apologize, especially to my family and friends who have been waiting to hear back from me.  These small nuggets are the best I can do for now.)

1. Yesterday I went to a cooking class with my neighbor.  She was meeting me there, so I walked down the hill alone.  We live on the side of a wide ravine.  On our side is one village, and on the other side is another.  The light as I was coming down the hill made the houses on the other side of the ravine glow enough that I had to stop and catch my breath.  The sun was out for the first time in days and it was that late afternoon light.  My feet were almost too light to hold me down.

The first thing we noticed was the heat, which wrapped around us lovingly in a thick wet hug.  Without much rain, this monsoon season has been almost unbearable, with everyone watching the skies for some cooling precipitation.

The next thing I noticed was the stuff everywhere!  Living on the mountainside like we have been makes a visit to the capital a jaw dropping experience.  And then I noticed that our boogers were already turning black.

It has improved here, though, over the years, since they instituted green fuel technology in the auto rickshaws and buses.  The auto rickshaws themselves are like small yellow and green beetles, swarming by the hundreds, overtaking and passing the larger, more sluggish automobiles on the road.  Some of the vehicles are ridiculous, in already tight spaces, giant SUV’s make driving almost impossible.

Then there are the people, the millions of them. The row of men napping on their bicycle rickshaws on the side of the road, cracked heels dangling off the vinyled edges of the seats.  The acrobat children who flip on the sides of the roads to get us to look and them, wanting money for their child labor efforts.  The colorful saris, the dupattas and scarves everywhere.

Sometimes in culture-colliding moments, I feel the world tilt like I have a severe case of vertigo.  Such was the case today at the U.S. Embassy, when I sat in the waiting room and watched the woman with the freckles dispense advice and forms with a Mid-Western accent, her comfortably padded figure an ideal of smiles and friendliness.  The room slid dangerously from left to right, the chairs all stacking up on one another with my strong sense of dislocation.  Where were we?  Technically America, but in the center of our India.

Now I have broken away for a moment, jubilant with the success of our passport mission, knowing that Solo’s passport will be in our hands in two weeks, with a train ticket for tomorrow night in hand, hardwon by Chinua.  I’m running around to do some shopping, finding myself in Khan market, another culture collision, where there are stores I can’t find elsewhere.  It’s a strange place, guarded by security companies to keep touts and beggars out, which makes it a simple shopping experience, but a little uncomfortable, since everyone seems to be so much cleaner and wealthier than I am.  Should I be here?  Or should the security guard stop me at the entrance?

It is much like the embassy today, where I wiped my baby’s head, damp with sweat, and considered our flowy and sun-faded clothing, comparing our dirty, cheerful selves with the pressed clothing of the other inhabitants of the waiting room.  The damp curls on the sides of YaYa’s face trickled sweat down her cheeks and I wondered how the others had managed to arrive at the embassy perspiration-free.  Possibly they jumped from air-conditioned car to air-conditioned waiting room, rather than piling into an auto rickshaw like the six of us.

I can’t imagine a mall in the West where some people are kept out and others are let in.  On the other hand, there are strict No Soliciting signs on the doors, which would definitely prevent the men who trail me for blocks, demanding that I pay attention to their handkerchiefs or towels or chess sets.  (I particularly love the way the chess wallas react to my “no”, offering hopefully, “Backgammon?”, as though I possibly detest chess but am an avid backgammon player.)

Have I idealized the West?  Or is it true that a working child would not be allowed to turn flips on her face on the dirt on the side of the road?  It’s hard not to blame the government here. And then there is the woman we met so many years ago, a beggar with a baby who called out “Chinua!” as we walked down the street, marveling at our four children, none of whom we had, the ten years ago that we spent each day sharing a meal with her.

It’s a homecoming in a way, this Main Bazaar in Paharganj, the backpacker’s ghetto.  I spot the guest houses where I hid away, my teenaged self in utter shock at the way the world had been ticking away in the dirt so far from me in my clean Canadian cul-de-sac.  The beggar woman looks amazing, clean and healthy, barely any older, walking home with us to make sure that Chinua will take her out for a meal.  I consider this woman, young, with a home, with English skills better than most people I meet in India.  She is so friendly and lovely that she must have a different opportunity somewhere else.  But maybe the begging life is addictive.  I mean, she’s famous around the world, in a way.

Everything here has something that contradicts it.  With a mind like mine, always in overdrive, it is difficult to be at rest.  No matter where I go, there are questions and answers, and there are contradicting answers.  Now I will go and find Kid A a birthday present (ahead of time) in a mall where I am an outsider, just a hippie in a well-dressed throng, trying to find something that will not break in a day. I am both wealthy and not, and very aware of both.

(Photos to come)

* Animals!  Angora goats, sheep, yaks, snakes, and one beloved bear. (YaYa, our resident adorer of animals, was of course right smack in the center of everything.)

* An old Himalayan village with carefully crafted wooden buildings, stables underneath for the sake of the heat.  Women carrying basket after basket of greens up the hillsides for their cows.  My favorite is when the purple clover is perched on the very top.

* The traditional village women here wear handwoven wool wraps.  One day I saw a woman weaving one.  She let me watch her for a while, but declined a photo.

* Orchards everywhere with teenager apples in the midst of growing up to be adult apples.

* The monsoon has come.  I still get nervous with the heavy heavy rains, not yet used to the fact that it’s completely normal.  Everyone has been waiting for the rains.  We are so glad for them.

* Good conversations and good coffee.

* A long walk through a forest.

* Solo is no longer a baby content to sit quietly with us while we wait for our food in a restaurant.  Chinua and I pass him back and forth like a football, each of us holding him until we can’t amuse him any longer. Kid A, on the other hand, simply looks for a chess set.  Things get complicated, though, when he is playing with YaYa and she gets frustrated and starts knocking over the pieces.

* A beautiful jam with a Swiss accordian player, Israeli guitarist, and Chinua on the mandolin.  The Swiss couple happened to have a tin whistle and I thankfully played along, although it had been a couple of years since I played one.  The muscle memory was somewhere back there, waiting.  As we played, pieces came back to me bits at a time, like a small child waking up from a nap.

* Tomorrow we leave, piling into the jeep, singing, playing 20 questions, excited to get home to our house and kitchen. (Mama is excited to make herself numerous cups of tea in the morning.)

Lately it seems like I am thwarted at every turn.  But not thwarted in love, in company, in fresh air, in greenery, in good food, or in baby kisses.  So every turn is an exaggeration.  What I am thwarted in is concentration and reliable internet access.

Wow, this is a really similar story to so many other that I’ve shared.  Really, Rae? you’re thinking.  Seriously?  You’re having problems with internet access and a clear space to concentrate on writing?  We’re shocked.  No really, we’d never have guessed.

You guys are so sarcastic.  But really, I have so many emails to respond to. (I got your email by the way!  I’m so sorry that I’m late in getting back to you!) And then I sit down to do it and one of the kids starts trying to pull off the head of another of the kids, so I decide to wait until the little lambs are sleeping, and when I finally sigh and settle down to do it, WHAM! a lightning bolt sizzles my computer.  No it doesn’t, but inexplicably the internet connection is down.

So I of course switch gears and sit and show Renee and Cat and Becca home videos of the children that they already see every single day.  Here’s Leafy singing.  Here’s Leafy dancing. Here’s Chinua singing and dancing while driving.  Look how cute everyone is!  Look how little they are! And you get the point.

I do have some real blog posts stuck in my brain- things I want to tell you and show you.  Letters to my kids which I should have posted LONG ago.  Thoughts on waste and what we do with our trash.  (I have lots of thoughts on this- the last year of my life has been spent wrestling with trash and trying to cut down on waste.  If there was a theme song to the year it would be… uh…. some kind of garbage related song.  I can’t think of one right now.)  Thoughts on community, on meditation, on life.

I’m also thinking of starting a new website, because what better thing to do when you have unreliable internet access than start a new website?

*

Today we woke up and Chinua asked me if I wanted to go for a walk.  I said yes, and that is what we did.  We walked to the waterfall in Bagsu- down the hill, another kilometre there, and one back, and back up the hill.  I have superhero kids.  And a Superstar Husband who made the last trek up the hill with a baby in the carrier, a Leafy boy on his shoulders, and a backpack on.

It was one of those memorable days when you are so so tired, but so happy, and you know that you will be talking about the waterfall for a long time, and you are glad that you do things like this, even when they make you tired.  Kind of like life.

(By the way, did you know that I turned 29 almost a week ago?  On my birthday I managed to play pin the tail on the donkey, ride on a seesaw, and ride on a thing that I can’t remember the word for… spinning thing, really dangerous, launches children into the air like sacks of potatoes, like a carousel but not… is there even a name for it?  Anyways, I felt like I turned 9, rather than 29.

And about the seesaw, Kid A says that it’s like a scale for people, and when I was too heavy on my end, he called YaYa over, saying “we need another orange on this side!”  Just a bit of living in India, since I don’t remember the last time I saw a scale with weights in the states, but it’s all they use here.)

Well, from the comments on the last post, I can tell that I confused some of you, with all of the Tibetan community talk. I didn’t exactly describe the place we have come to, so I’ll tell you a little bit now.

We are living (soon we will move into our new little house, where we will really be “living” instead of “guesting”) in a small village to the north of McLeod Ganj, far north in India. McLeod Ganj is the home of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan Government in Exile. There is a huge Tibetan refugee community here. So although we are still in India, we are surrounded by a combination of Tibetan women, men, and children, Buddhist monks, and of course the local Himalayan Indian people.

As for what we are doing here… here is a link to the larger story, and I’ll add that we were really pleased with the way our meditation as an informal Shekina Meditation Center was going in Goa, and we hope to continue that here. Our thoughts are to remain with the international traveling community, and so our experience of India is always an international one, at once getting to know the local people but also spending much of our time with travelers. It is not always the most comfortable place to be, but we are always thankful for all the friendships we have with people here. Shekina means “the Divine Presence” and my friend Cate wrote something recently which describes Shekina Meditation as follows:

By use of the Holy Scriptures and other Christ centered literature, we intend to create a safe place for the Divine Presence to speak to the individual heart, while also speaking to us as a group seeking the Divine Presence.

For the next few months, which are the hot season (hot? I feel like I was hot the whole time I was there!) and the monsoon in Goa, we plan to be up north here, feeling out what kind of meditation gathering we could have in this area. All that said, here are some pictures. I’m sad that my camera quit on me while I was in the midst of traveling, but Chinua’s is still alive and well, so I’ll show you a few of my favorites that he took. This is a pretty good shot of what Kid A was like the entire time we were on the train. I have never seen energy like the energy that a six-year-old boy has. Renee is dying to get off the train and away from the boy energy.

Leafy, on the other hand, is a pensive traveler.

As am I.

Solo is a squishable traveler with potato curry on his shirt.

YaYa’s attitude toward the food here has done a 180° turn since we’ve been in India. It’s good therapy for picky kids. Also, the bathroom therapy has been successful. She will now use any kind of toilet in any bathroom, with only a mild amount of complaint. She still doesn’t like it when she has to use the bathroom after someone takes a shower, though.

She was shoveling this food down, while saying, “Wasn’t that dahl SO GOOD, Mama?” Here’s a tip, though. Don’t assume that train food is included in your ticket if someone doesn’t specifically tell you that it is. Otherwise, when the train food walla comes around for payment, you’ll be giving each other blank looks while patting your empty pockets. (Not that it costs THAT much.) Here’s a shot near McLeod Ganj.

And another. Gorgeous, just gorgeous.

Maria is my Goan next-door neighbor in Arambol.  She kisses me on both cheeks with tears in her eyes as we get ready to get in the van taxi.  All of our things are loaded and the heat presses down on all of us.  I say goodbye to Miriam, knowing that I will see her again in October, after her trip home to Germany, but six months is a long way away.  We wave goodbye to our house.

*

We stand on the platform with our numerous bags and boxes around us.  We are thirsty and it is so hot.  All around are the coconut palms and cashew trees of Goa, as well as the red earth.  It is the sleepy, middle time of day, and we count fifteen bags, including Renee’s.  Becca and Cat will board the train in Mumbai.  We are no longer exactly backpackers with our fifteen bags, but we are doing pretty well for a family of six.  We discuss strategy: One person will board the train with the kids, one will stand on the platform passing bags to a person standing on the train.  The train will only stop briefly, we will need to get everything on in a hurry.

*

We have been told the wrong platform.  When the train stops we need to run four cars down, but we can’t carry all our stuff at once.  “Just go!” Chinua yells, as I hesitate with the kids.  We run, and YaYa asks, “Is Daddy going to be left behind?”

I sincerely hope not, as I board the train and watch Renee unloading stuff.  Chinua is running back and forth and I try to keep the kids out of the way in the narrow corridor.  Not much help, I find us a place to sit, and we wait.  After Chinua and Renee get everything on, the train sits for another fifteen minutes.  So much for the rush.  It was by far our most panicky moment of the trip.

*

The air conditioning in our car feels heavenly.  Our seats are a little scattered, and there doesn’t seem to be enough room for all of our bags.  I am exhausted already, and I sit with Leafy and Solo, waiting.  My Superstar Husband does the bulk of the arranging.  My mind feels tied up with my baby.

*

I whisper goodbye to Goa, as we pass by stunningly beautiful rivers and palm forest groves.

*

We drink our first of many, many chais that are making their way through the train car.  Lunch is served and we attack it like the ravenous beasts that we are.  The light outside is soft.  I go to stand by the open door for a minute.  The hot and humid air strokes my face.  The color of the air here is always orange, or red, or golden.  We pass through tunnels and I muse about the endless lines of people who have dug these tunnels, carrying the dirt out on their heads.

*

I have a six-year-old boy who is incredibly hyper in a small compartment.  We will be here for thirty more hours.  Will we survive?  He jiggles his arms up and down and hops on both feet.  He literally shakes from the energy that wants to rip through his body.  I close my eyes.

*

I will be holding my baby for a long time.  I try to get him to settle down for a nap.  I am not successful.

*

YaYa makes friends with a little girl in the compartment that I am next to.  They play with stuffed animals together.  Leafy knowingly tells the girl’s parents that the elephant is a rhinocerous.  They don’t know that he is just messing with them.

*

The wallas (vendors) pass through every three minutes or so with their calls of “Paneer Pakora,” “Samose,” “Chai,” “Tea bag chai,” “Nes-coffee,” and one that we think is “Hard Cheese Sandwich,” but sounds like “Awwww… Cheese Sandwich,” For the rest of the trip, every time that man passes by, I say “Awwww,” and Chinua laughs.

*

Time for bed.  We get the kids situated on their small bunks.  This class provides blankets and sheets.  They are hyper and have been climbing up and down the ladders all day.  “Lie down and go to sleep,” we say.  YaYa says goodbye to her new friend, who will get off the train in the night.

*

Chinua waits for Becca and Cat’s station in Bombay.  I am trying to sleep, but am too wired because of the possibility that we won’t find them.  They get on, and relief washes over me.  I am sleepily listening to their description of their adventure as extras in a Bollywood Film; the dance scene, the costumes.  It all feels a little unreal, and I drift off…

*

The family in the booth next to me wakes up to get off of the train and they behave as though it is the middle of the day and we should all be up. Solo wakes up beside me and believes them.  I spend three hours trying to get him to go back to sleep, but the loud talking and laughing and bright lights interfere.  At 5:00 in the morning he finally drifts off.

*

At 7:00, my kids wake up.  Argggh.  My hips are bruised from the iron bar that was the joint where the two seats became my bed.  Have I slept at all?  Thankfully, the chai walla is ready and prepared.

*

YaYa is climbing off the walls.  I cannot believe that I am on this train with these four children.  We are supposed to board another train when we reach Delhi this evening.  I’m not sure that I will make it.

*

By the landscape, it appears that we are in Rajasthan.  Now there are sloping desert-like hills.  Men squat in dhotis and turbans.  We see many flocks of goats and water buffalo.

*

The train food is really good.  I feed Solo bits of curried potatoes.  He loves them.  I’ve been holding him for so long that I feel like my arms will break off.  Chinua takes turns, and Becca takes him for a while, but he always wants me when he sees me.

*

There are wheat fields all around us, and people are harvesting the wheat by hand.  We see the sheaves lying tied on the ground, we see bundles of sheaves, and we even see golden stacks of grain.  All done by hand.  It’s incredible, and I stare, fascinated, at the colorful people bending and swaying in the fields as we pass.

*

Monkeys are lined up along the tracks.  We catch sight of them and then they are gone.

*

We discuss a change in strategy.  We will stay the night in Delhi if we can find a good hotel.  We take many, many trips to the bathroom.  YaYa is a pro at squatting now.  Everyone is fascinated by the fact that the toilets simply open onto the tracks.  Poo on the tracks!

*

More chai.  More Veg Pakora.  More samosas.  More bouncing off the walls.  The kids in the next booth have become very tired of the train. The littlest one cries and I see his exhausted mother walking with him as I try to bounce Solo to sleep.  She is Indian and wearing Salwar Kameez, I am Western and wearing a shirt and a skirt, but we could be sisters.

*

We call hotels and make a reservation, a little ways out of the busiest part of Delhi.  I know now not to book two train journeys back to back, even if it seems convenient.  30 hours at a time is plenty.

*

Porters board the train and help with some of our things.  The kids grab a hand.  I have Solo in the carrier and Leafy in the stroller and bags to boot. Everyone has something and we make our slow way through the crowded station.  There are people sitting everywhere on the platforms.  I meet a set of stairs and am stumped.  Leafy gets out of the stroller and tries to pick up the front to help me carry it up, but it is weighed down with too many bags in the back and we can’t make it.  I could almost cry from the sweetness of his gesture.  One of the porters leaps down the stairs and picks up the stroller to carry it up. We follow.

*

We haggle with the taxi drivers.  This is the India I remember, far from the softness of Goa.  Chinua bursts out laughing at the high prices they start out with.  Everyone is yelling, but no one means anything bad by it.

*

I head back in to get our money back for the tickets we will cancel.  While I’m gone, YaYa needs to pee, and at a loss, Chinua helps her to squat by a wall (this is how it is done here).  While she is doing her business, a giant rat scurries past her, two inches from her feet.  “A mousie!” she cries.  “A mousie, did you see the mousie? Kid A, I saw a mousie, so close to me!” she tells her brother excitedly as they rejoin the rest.

*

After we get to the hotel, after we climb the flights of stairs and order some food and get everyone in the shower and put the mats on the floor and I finally succeed in bouncing an over-tired and over-stimulated baby to sleep, I look around and take stock.  There are cupboards in our room.  (”A wardrobe, Kid A!” YaYa shouts, thinking of Narnia.) Our children have fallen asleep in their jammies, there are so many of them.  We put them on mattresses on the floor, Leafy goes on the couch, Solo is in the bed with us.

“I’m so proud of them,” I tell Chinua in a whisper.  He nods and tells me the rat story.  We look at our treasures and love them.  Travel with them is tiring, but it has never been so magical.

She said, I want you to get some clothes on before you go outside, Leafy.

She called and she asked, Did I leave my mobile phone there yesterday? I can’t seem to find it.

She said, That’s alright. I’m sure it will turn up.

She ran into the house and she said, Guess what, Chin! It was stuck behind the seat of the car.

She said, I need some pomegranates, some oranges, some bananas and some spinach.

She said, I know you can finish your work, Kid A. I’ve seen you do it before. Just focus and keep trying.

She said, Leave it on my desktop for me, Cate, and I’ll try to proofread it for you.

She said, No climbing on the windows, Leafy.

She said to herself, On 56 different occasions yesterday, I was so homesick that I could have cried. Today is better. Today home is here. It’s the business of moving, this back and forth dance.

She said, Sure, you can take this sheet into your fort. Just try not to drag it through the dirt.

She said, Don’t go over to the neighbors’ house again without telling me. Otherwise you’ll have to stay in the house tomorrow.

She said, Goodbye my love. Have fun in Amsterdam. I’ll miss you. I love you. If you see anything nice, get me one!

She said, Only a few days now until UNCLE MATTY gets here, kids!

She said to Renee, Sure, you can borrow the scooter. Oh- actually- where are the keys?

She said, Chinua took the keys but he’s going to send them back with the taxi driver.

She said, Should we turn on some music, Leafy? Do you want to dance?

She said, Sure she can walk to the veggie stall with you, Renee.

She said, The cat liked you, YaYa? Really? Did he follow you home?

She said, Will you get me a dozen eggs and two packets of milk, Kid A? Here’s 100 Rupees. You should get 29 back.

She said, He laughed for the first time, today.

She said, Oh beautiful beautiful beautiful beautiful baby.

She said, PLEASE GO TO SLEEP.

She said, Can I call you back?

She said, Dinner’s going to be a little late, kids. I have to help Solo get to sleep.

She said, What day is her birthday again? Is there anywhere here that we can buy a cake?

She said, Yes, you’re singing. Oh yes you are. Oh yes you ARE. Oh you are a GOOD singer, singie wingie singer yesyouare.

She said, There’s lots of soup if you want any.

She said, This question might be a little pointed, but do you feel like walking to the store to get yourself a lime soda? Because if you do, I wouldn’t mind having one too.

She said, No, I’m not mad at you. But I want you to know that you cannot take anything of ours and decide to throw it away, okay? That’s a rule. No throwing stuff out.

She said to her Russian neighbors, Can I borrow your bottle opener? My son threw mine off into a trash pile.

She said, That man bathing at the well is completely stark naked, Renee.

She said (about twenty times) Get back in your bed, Leafy.

At night, just before she went to sleep, she said, Oh thank You thank You thank You. Thank You for all of them and for peace and for grace like the sea.

Business cards:

1. Guy who let us sleep on his roof in Turkey (I didn’t)

2. Relocation company who finally got us our stuff

3. Artemis Hotel, where we stayed for that week that we were out of the gathering and Chinua was in. The man at the hotel swam with the kids everyday.

4. Taxi service

5. Birthing Center- I will do a full post on the beauty of this birthing center at some point.

Blurry drawing of a chai pot:

I like this because it shows how fun it is to communicate without a common language. Chinua drew the picture of the chai pot when we were trying to find one in Turkey (actually, it’s çay there, pronounced the same) and I drew the picture of the roll of toilet paper. No idea what the 36 is for. Some abandoned accounting project, no doubt.

One grocery list from Sacramento, one grocery list from Goa:

You could do a whole study based on my grocery lists. You will never find 1/2 and 1/2 on a grocery list of mine here, because they don’t have any. And by the way, the real… cheese is parmesan.

And last:

Ticket stubs from our boarding passes. All that traveling seems like it happened years ago…