I love Amazing Race.  I love seeing all the wonderful, historic, adventurous, challenging places the teams travel to.  I love how Amazing Race incorporates cultures and traditions in the road blocks and tasks the teams must complete.  Mostly, I love the way the exotic locales, the difficulty circumstances, the stressful situations and the overall race challenge the inner workings of each team’s relationship.  This show is almost more a master class in psychology than it is a race for a million bucks.  But I digress.

This episode begins with the teams having to fly to Jaipur, India one of the cities we visited on a long weekend trip. Watching and listening to the teams talk about the terrifying traffic, the constantly honking horns, the alien feel, the masses of people, the confusion, the overwhelming of it all, momentarily transported me out of my safe, comfortable apartment, catapulting me back into the smells, the sites, the sounds of India.  I may have had a momentary flash of post traumatic stress!   The scenes of poverty and distress and indigence and need the cameras recorded, the heart-rending plight of children and animals eating living in the streets, eating trash, were all-too-familiar.  Two of the participants were reduced to tears.  Watching Luke, who happens to be deaf,  sob uncontrollably as his mother tried to console him, was too much for this girl’s quivering heart.  I had to stop watching.  I so understand, Luke; I wish I could give you a big hug.  I’ve been gone three weeks and I’ve still not shaken it from my soul; I wonder if I ever will.

I’m not sure I have ever quoted a movie director before, but I have to attribute the above statement to Titanic director James Cameron.  Who knew the guy whose cring-worthy ‘King of the World’ shout at the Oscars could string together a sentence so profound, so grounded in truth?  One of my favorite memories of India is of sunset, when the sun really does hang on the edge of the world,  like a basketball, balancing on the rim.

This blog has been and will continue to be the repository of my favorite India moments.  I hope to post more pictures and more stories as I go through notes and camera cards.  For the moment, however, it is evening in my assaying of India; the sun is setting on this blog.  As with all endings, a new beginning.   I’m not sure how successful I will be, but I am starting a new blog, Seinfeldesque you might say, because it is ostensibly about nothing!  Here’s the link:

http://chyster62.wordpress.com

Pop by if you get the chance.

Thanks for following me about.  I hope I was able to capture even a small part of the journey.  Thank you, India, for indelible memories.  You are unforgettable.

Did you know the Queen–you know, E the Second, Grace of God,  United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and Her other Realms and Territories,  Head of Commonwealths, Defender of the Faith–tThat Queen, 82 years young, is addicted to Wii?  Apparently Willie Wales got one for Christmas in ’08; Her Majestic Granniness took it over.  Bowling seems to be the game of royal choice.  Can’t you see it, there in the throne room,  dressed  in her two piece suit, purse hanging off her elbow,  crown askew, the old girl screaming at the telly after she throws the electronic gutter ball.

I have a confession to make.  Last Wednesday, despite my frugal nature, I did the deed.  Yes, I joined the Wii revolution.  I bought a console and Wii Fit.  Oh. my…

In my younger incarnation,I was majorly into 3rd person shooter gaming like Half-Life and Doom, plus the role-plying games, especially Myst and sequels.  I spent countless hours in a darkened room, gleefully slaying aliens and unlocking puzzles.  Addicted. Eventually, I entered no 12-step program, just simply decided there were better, more productive ways to spend endless hours.   Yeah.  I probably should not have purchased that Wii…

I am so undisciplined when it comes to this type of thing! I have basically spent most of my free time these past five days amongst the little Mii people, running around an island, hula-hooping until my hips hurt, slaloming through red and blue flags, ski-jumping (my first few tries–I was the poster girl for ABC Wide World of Sports old opening  ‘the agony of defeat’), tight-rope walking while trying to jump over evil chattering teeth, maneuvering pool balls around little wooden trays, attempting to yoga (love the Warrior, hate the Tree), and realizing just how unfit and overweight I am. Plus, the console came with the game:  Wii Sports.  I am even more enamored of this!  I have also spent more than a few hours bowling horribly, hitting home runs, cursing at golf, playing tennis, learning to play tennis left-handed when my right forearm got too sore, and beating the stuffing out of little Mii’s in boxing. My kickboxing is coming in handy!

I have friends at work that take this Wii stuff very seriously.  They have tournaments.  They have TROPHIES for winners of the tournaments.  I understand children and pets are banned from the living room, for fear of flying elbows, wayward kicks and random remote swings.  I’ve been invited to participate, but I’m a bit skeered!  I know what I look like in the privacy of my own home, huffing and puffing, awkward and uncoordinated.  No way am I going public with that YouTube video!

I wonder what the Queen’s favorite Mii looks like?

**edited when I realized there IS an India connection: India was under British rule until 1947. Edward VI was King of England at that time.  The current Queen is his eldest daughter.  See!  India to QEII: Six Degrees of Chy Separation! **

Well, anyway, what I found amusing were the commonalities in the conversations I had through out the day.  First, the squat toilet seems to be the thing that fascinates and repulses everyone.  Believe me, I completely understand.  Dont think I didn’t fervently pray to see that familiar porcelain chair every time I had to avail myself of  public facilities.  A lot of people were confused by how it worked; I found myself in a variation of charades, trying to demonstrate the functionality of a hole, a bucket and your backside.  There’s an image you don’t want burned into your cornea.

Second, most are still dubious regarding my assertions about the abundance of  free-willy whizzers.  As I repeated assured,  yes, oh, yes, it was indeed commonplace to look out the window of your vehicle and see that telling arc glistening in the sun, emanating from some guy, whose back was blessedly turned.  There was no rhyme or reason to the when or who, it occurred driving through middle-class neighborhoods and along the edges of slums, we spotted the offenders when visiting temples and touring  monuments, it happened in the city and in the country.  I was of two minds about whether a picture was appropriate.  Of course, I took one

The final shared topic of discussion regarded the cows.  Yes, they really do roam at will, much like stray dogs.  Only bigger.  And meaner.  In Hinduism, the cow is not worshiped like the god Shiva or goddess Lakshmi, rather, it is revered as a symbol of life and may not be killed.  Cows roam the streets and fields; they have the right of way, in every way.  It is not uncommon to see them sleeping in the street, or blocking traffic, or standing on a pile of trash by the side of the road, eating the garbage.  Sometimes it was one or two wandering cows, sometimes it was a herd of roaming cows.  In the first days of our arrival, we took photo after photo of the phenomenon, pointing and exclaiming at every bovine spotting.  The last day I was there, I couldn’t tell you if I saw a cow or not;  I had become immune to the novelty. Cows simply are a part of the multi-layered fabric of every day life in India.

On a completely unrelated topic, can I just take a personal moment here?  I woke up today to news that has been three years in the making.  News that not only made my day, but gave my little Cowboy loving heart such happiness and joy, I almost did a dance.  I am a lifelong Dallas Cowboy fan, born and bred.  I bleed silver and blue.  Every training camp, every preseason,  I look at the upcoming year with such cock-eyed optimism, such fervent hope, such unwavering belief that this year, this year, this is the year we return the Lombardi Trophy to its rightful, righteous home.  And every December, my hopes and dreams are ruthless dashed against the jagged rocks of hubris and reality.  Mostly, I blame Jerry Jones;  this past season, I screamed a lot at interception-prone Tony Romo.  However, this morning, that locker room cancer, that loud mouth, erratic route runner, that Rat TO, was released.  Yes, there was boundless joy in Cherylville this morning.  I have despised this player since his San Fran days, yet had been forced to root for his rattyness, his rodent-hood, for three poisonous years.  No more!  The Rat has taken his beady eyes and twitchy nose to other more rotten cheese.  Knowing our luck, he will land with the Gnats or the Deadskins, and burn us for 10 TDs and countless yards, because our defensive secondary sucks worse than a vacuum with no electricity.  But he is gone.  Oh!  And,  so is the other Roy Williams, the safety Roy Williams, another thorn in my side.  My great, great, great gram-mama, decades removed from this life, could have covered  receivers from her grave, better than that loser.  In fact, one middle-aged, overweight, un-athletic woman named Cheryl could cover better than Roy. Hey!  It could happen!

Okay, anti-Rat rant over.  Thanks for going along with my little Cowboy detour.  This is the year!  Super Bowl or Fire Wade!

Oh, I got off track again, didn’t I?  Despite my jetlag and apparent BG obsession, I would be remiss if I did not send out a huge thank you to some very important people back in India.  For eight weeks, I was a daily part of their lives.  They completely embraced me, made me feel not just like an honored guest, but like family.  Their warmth and hospitality was like an oasis in a dry desert.  Their patience with me was extraordinary, as I constantly peppered them with questions about their history, about their language, about their food, about their culture, about cricket, about being Hindu, about being Muslim,  about being Indian.  Countless breaks and lunches spent learning and asking, being entertained and entertaining.  Knowledge was a two-way street as they grilled me on Obama and movies and families and religion and all things American.  What a wonderful, loving, great bunch of people I got to know.  So I say ‘Hello, Friend’, and Thank you.’  to Anarag, Radjni, Isha, Pinki, Yashi, Meenu, Vasu, Gurmeet, Abishek, GG, Faiyaz, Manish, Indu, JP, Raju, Faizel, Prashensah, Vipul, Rajnish, Danish, Alok, Gaurev, Siddharth,  the three Amits, Deepak my engineer,  Subhashish my doubting Thomas and our leader, the incomparable Vikram…dhanyavaad, dhanyavaad.  You are forever a part of me.

Our departure from Delhi was fairly straightforward; the process of getting into the airport and eventually to your flight unnecessarily complicated by fairly ineffective layers of red tape and security.  I’m all about making the plane safe from whatever threat, but, as I have come to know these past two months, efficiency is not something widely embraced in the culture.

Only people with tickets can enter the departure hall.  I understand this rule was inacted only recently, that mass chaos used to reign within.  Now, it roams the exterior.  Crowds of relatives swarm and churn outside the doors.  We were told that it is not unusual for families to travel for days, just to see a family member off.  I believe it. In order to enforce,  you must show your iticket to two different security dudes before even getting in the building.  Once inside, you must locate your check in counter.  Because Patty was flying business and our luggage was on one trolley, they let me check in the priority line.  When we got to the counter, the lady informed Patty that business and coach were overbooked, would she mind bumping up to first class.  Good freaking grief!!!!  This girl has all the luck. You think she said no?? She leapt all over the offer.  To the counter girl’s credit, she did try to bump me up to business, but we both know, that wasn’t going to happen. And it didnt’.  Patty and I think she felt sorry for me, as she didnt charge me my overweight baggage charge.

Once checked in, you then have to show your departure card (supplied by our hotel, so no wait), the move to the first real security check.  Here, you do the laptop out of the bag scan, as you get scanned.  Women go to a separate,  curtained area to be wanded, then patted down.  The woman doing the search was so thorough, I thought a cigarette in the afterglow appropriate   Once the felt-up portion finishes, you collect your carryon and are in the airport secure area.  Basically it is a huge duty free store with liquor, more liquor, a lot more liquor and a few magazines.  Also, one trinket store, a sandwich shop, a Subway and a coffee shop.  That’s about it.

Patty and I waited.  Boarding time was the normal slightly chaotic thing I have come to expect.  I was one of the last to get to board.  As you enter the concourse down to the plane, you have to do one more, completely unnecessary security search.  You have to show you liquids, they look at laptops and ipods, then you remove your shoes and get wanded one last time.  It was a completely ridiculous process, with no information signs, or organizational process to speak of.

I got on the plane and got seated, along with a completely full compliment of travelers.  My misery started with the two children directly behind me, who basically cried and acted out the entire flight.  Of course, directly in front of me, I had the guy who immediately lays the chair all the way back and behaves like a bore.   He started our relationship by manhandling my laptop bag and backpack in order to make room for his overstuffed carry on.  Being already tense and on edge because of the chaotic boarding and my intense fear of flying, I vocally objected to the way he was flinging my already loaded stuff around.  He bestowed upon me one fo those arrogant looks some Indian men give to women, whom they consider to be an inferior species.  He pissed me off, that guy and his attitude.  Unfortunately, he had the upper hand in this one; hes seat only went upright for takeoff, food and landing. Really the only inflight relief I had from the slightly claustrophobic feeling, was dinner and breakfast service.  Even then, I had to put up with his crap, because, even before I had finished my dinner, he was laying the seat back.  A consequence of which, had part of my tray ending up in my lap and on the floor.  No apology or acknowledgment for butthead when I objected.  It got to the point in my head, him laying back so far into my space, that if  I had a straight razor, a razorstrap and a mug of shaving cream, I might have done my best Sweeney Todd impression.

Added to the discomfort was, just after dinner service, we hit real turbulance.  The bone-jarring, gut-dropping kind.  The kind so intense, the pilot ordered the attendants into jump seats.  For about an hour.  I was so tired, I actually dozed a bit during the roller coaster ride.  To underscore how much rules are often ignored or circumvented by some, the flight attendant had to keep telling idiots up and about the cabin it was too dangerous for them to be up.  Then to top it all off, people just started putting their dirty dinner trays into the aisle.  The attendants, once they could get up, had to point out how wrong it is to do that.  She was rewarded with a blank stare.

I guess I probably slept about 3 hours before the children behind me put an end to that plan.  The baby started screaming and basically screamed or screeched for the rest of the flight.  His barely older brother decided that kicking the back of my chair as I attempted to sleep would be fun.  I can’t really blame the kids, because 15.5 hours of flight time is too much for an adult, much less a child.  However, for the sake of the remaining passengers mental health, I think the airline should just sedate every child.  And some adults. Perhaps with Benadryl.  Or an ether mask.

I finally just gave up all hope of sleeping or being comfortable, and gave in to one more flight of sleepless zombiness.  I couldn’t read, so I watched movies.  Five in all, I think.  Slumdog Millionaire, I watched twice.  I also watched Doubt (fabulous Meryl in a well-written movie), VickieChristinaBarcelona (Penelope Cruz, equally fabulous, but the film sucked), the remake of The Day the Earth Stood Still (acting so bad, even the normally spectacular Kathy Bates was robotic) and Quantum of Solace (2nd time I’ve seen it. I love Daniel Craig as Bond).

I also watched the flight route.  This time, we headed north, passed over Afghanistan and a bunch of other ‘stans, then over a really large portion of Russia, and turned west, far north of Moscow.  We were actuall fairly close to the Arctic Ocean, crossing over the Barants Sea and the Greenland Sea, eventually crossing Greenland then swinging over Canada and south into the US.  At one point, we were traveling at 38000 feet and the temperature was -59 Farenheit.  Brrrr.

The entire flight ended up being just one long, gritty-eyed misery.  Which leads me to this statement: never again.  I’m not saying never again to flying (although I would really like that), nor am I saying never again to going to India (although it would take a lot to convince me to return anytime soon).  No, I am saying, never again do I take a flight of that length, in coach.  It is the cattle-pens, the meat market, the after-thought of airlines.  I don’t care what incentive is offered, next time,  I do not wallow in self-inflictted misery.

About the only good thing, in fact, the only important thing that came from that flight is, we landed safely and on time.  We did, however, have a fairly tight connection to catch.  As was my luck, my two checked bags were no where to be found.  Finally, about the last of the luggage, here they came.  We loaded up and then went to recheck, after which, we got on the sky tram in Chicago.  Sadly, it was broke.  It took them a good while to fix and the time was not our friend.  We finally got going, got to our connecting terminal and hoofed it to security.

While we may not like it, at the very least, our security process is an all in one package: shoes, liquids and laptops all take care of at the same time.  Clearing security, we hustled the length of H hall to our next gate.  They were already loading groups 1 and 2, so we basiclly left one flight to get onto another.

The DFW leg was blissfully peaceful.  I actually cat-napped, popping my eyes open everytime the engine changed sounds.  I’m such a paranoid flyer!  We got to DFW a few minutes early, customs was quick, luggage was equally quick, then we simple waited for our ride.  A brief flurry of calls and there she was at our exit.  I begged her to stop at a McDonalds, where I ordered a Dr Pepper, an Egg McMuffin and a hash brown.  OH, MY.  I could have fainted at the taste.  It was earth-moving. It was mind-blowing. It was a freaking egg McMuffin.  It was home.

Thus ends the adventure. After two months and over 16000 total flight miles,  I am home.  It was a delicious sensation, turning the key,  feeling the familiar weight of the door open under my hand, then crossing the threshold into my very small, very clean, very familiar apartment.  There was a tangible shift, a mental settling, like the smooth click of the tumblers when you reach that last combination number on your Master Lock combo lock.  The world righted itself.  I am home.

Veronica and Angie, get our table ready.  Patty and I will be back at lunch before you know it.

See everyone soon!

We’ve arrived at our next to last. The past week has possibly been the longest recorded week in the history of mankind.  Or, perhaps the second longest.  Patty, Laura, Teresa and I have made the countdown each night as we leave work:  five days, four days, three days, two days; tonight, one day.  One day left in India.  One breakfast, one lunch, one supper, one sleep between now and our plane.  Next to last day in a world so removed from my own, I anticipate I will be a stranger to myself when I return home.  I’m looking forward to re-acquainting myself with my every day life.

A toast to the penultimate day of the India adventure. then. I have never, ever, looked forward to boarding a plane, but today, I can’t wait for tomorrow!

I love to cook almost as much as I love to eat   Cooking, for me, is a joy.  I love finding, creating and trying new recipes.  I love shopping for fresh vegetables and spices and a good cut of meat, knowing that from these raw ingredients, a new creation will emerge.  Despite that fact that when I am cooking, I am a woman possessed and must not be bothered, cooking relaxes me.  I do not, however, enjoy BEING cooked!

For our last Sunday in India, Patty and I planned a relaxing afternoon of spa-age.  Spas are foreign territory for moi; I’m just a country girl from a blue-collar family.  I don’t move in circles where this is de riguer; my income is a big deterrents for something so frivilious.  I come to the being pampered thing with a skepticism born of years of penny-pinching.

My stay in India has introduced me to the pleasure of sauna and steam room and jacuzzi.  Prior to this, they were simply references in books, scenes in cinema and tv, and mostly for the chi-chi rich.  Not long after our arrival, Patty persuaded me to do the eyebrow threading thing.  I swore then I would rather be a hirsute monkey than voluntarily put myself into that situation again.  Apparently, like I hear women say about childbirth, I forgot it was a painful process.  Today, Patty went for eyebrow threading and an Aloe Vera facial.  I choose eyebrow, upper lip and chin threading (don’t ask–) and an almond oil head massage.  While Patty went off to be threaded, I went with the masseuse.

My head massage was undescribably fabulous.  First, my masseuse applied the oil, slowly swabbing strips of cotton, soaked in the almond oil, through out my hair.  Then, the actual deed.  My guy had fingers of steel!  He massaged my head like a cook kneads dough, fingers and hands pushing and pulling, working and re-working every inch of my scalp.  Then he switched to the pressing part. He placed his hands on either side of my head and pushed, hard.  In fact, I thought my head might pop like a fat zit.  At first, I got all tense, thinking he might break a bone and I would hemorrage from the brain and have to go to a local hospital and have brain surgery and not be able to fly home on Sunday.  Because it is ALL about flying home on Sunday.  Thankfully, that scenario did not play itself out anywhere other than my slightly psychotic mind.  I relaxed.  It was really quite soothing, having your head mashed in like a ripe melon.  He moved from my head to my arms, then hands, finally popping my fingers.  It sounded like snapping a chicken wing!  I almost jumped out of the chair.  It didn’t hurt, I just wasn’ t prepared.

Finger snapping moved back into arm massage, then a quick massage of shoulders and neck, and finally, more head rubbing and mashing.  After all of that, I felt like a prime cut of steak that the chef has just malleted.  I like it so much, I made an appointment for a foot massage Saturday before we fly out.   I want my feet to be pamered, too!

After the head massage, my hair thick with almond oil, I moved to the threading room.  Okay, I understand that it is probably a good idea to not grow a Franken-brow, but seriously, unless my eyebrows start to resemble Frida Kahlo, I’m pretty sure this is the last time I voluntarily under go this torture.  I do not enjoy it; twice now I have paid someone to rip eyebrow hair out by the roots.  No more!

The sweet young girl who performs this act of torture takes some white thread, wraps it around her thumbs and fingers, then places the end of the string in her mouth.  At least, that’s how I think it is done.  She then proceeds to somehow manipulate the thread across your eyebrows, literally ripping hairs out.  Sometimes, I would have to hold the skin tight, so as to minimize the pain.  It  didn’t help.  At one point, my toes curled as I made every effort to stifle the scream attempting to leap out of my throat.  All I could think of was back when I was younger and we lived out in the country in Colorado, my family raised chickens.  Every now and then, it came time for a few chickens to give their life in order to be fried for Sunday dinner.  My grandmother would wring their necks with one giant snap, my grandfather would chop the head off, my mom would dip the chicken in a vat of boiling water and we would all sit and pluck chickens.  It was a nasty, smelly, sweaty job.  The pinfeathers were the worst.  Small little chicken hairs, determined to stay attached to the wrinkled skin.  Yuck.  I felt like a chicken, being de-pinfeathered.

Once the eyebrows took on the shape of Norma Desmond, she moved to my upper lip, then my chin. Whatever.  We are not even going to discuss it.

After the beating and the plucking, I felt it only fitting to end my spa treatment with a turn in the sauna, then the steamroom.  Back in the seclusion of the locker area, I stripped, wrapped myself tightly in an enormous towel, then took my almond head and ripped up forehead to the sauna.

Of the sauna/steam room choice, I am less enamoured of the sauna.  It reminds me of Texas, late July, around 3:00 pm, standing on an asphalt road, naked.  Or at least what I IMAGINE that might be like.  Heat, baking into your bones, beating down on your skin, slow-roasting. I could almost smell the almond oil, basting my scalp.  I lated ten minutes, then escaped to the cool of the spa.  Once my skin stopped sizzling, I entered the empty steam room.  Before doing so, I checked the temperature: 36 Celsius.  This is about 97 degrees Farenheit; for a steam room, child’s play.  I like it that way.  I plopped on a bench, closed my eyes and leaned back.  The steam fizzed slightly, reheating the room from entry.  It was comfortably sticky, if humidity can be considered comfortable.  Next to me, the steam room door opened.  I looked over, and some skinny stick of a woman saunters naked into the foggy room.  Okay, whatever floats your boat.  Then she leaves, only to return a few seconds later.  The steamer kicks in; she disappears into the rapidly growing haze.  Apparently, she did not care for my lazy temperature.  Apparently, she thought we were lobsters, needing to be boiled alive.  The sweat started pooring off of me as the steam intensified.  I could feel my skin beginning to leave my bones.  My eyes began to retreat into the back of my head.  I stumbled out into the cool air, irritated beyond words at nakedchick.  She had turned the temperture to 41Celsious.  That’s about 105.  I was steamed, in more ways than one. I high-tailed it out of the steam bath before I ended up looking like the Red Lobster sign.

I stepped into a shower cubicle and began the task of washing the oil out of my hair.  It was difficult, because my eyes felt par-boiled, so I kept them closed a lot.  Three washes later, I had clean hair.  I slathered my head in conditioner, then took , what  I thought was the soap and latthered myself up.  Only it wasnt soap, it was more conditioner.  I conditioned hair on my body that really has never been conditioned before.  I just laughed, peered out of slits in my boiled eyes and cleaned it all up.  Then I rinsed off, dried off, got dressed and left.  I’m pretty sure if I had stayed much longer, I might have ended up as the main course on a menu somewhere: Cheryl Bourguignonne.

Bon Appetit!