Immunity

I think I am immune to the effects of high altitudes. Perhaps it is my years of living with lofty goals that have prepared me for life at 3326 meters. While I should be extremely tired, short of breath, light headed and have no appetite, I have been the complete opposite: energized, alert and ravanous. I have been drinking cocoa tea by the bucket loads so you´d think my frequent bathroom sprints would tire me out, but not yet. I am readying for a pre-trek trek to Saqsaywaman (say it in a way that sounds like a sing song version of "sexy woman"), where I might find out that my immunity to the high altitude is in fact fictious. But whatever happens, it had better not stand in my way of trying my first alpaca-burger!

Harvest season

Friends of mine decided to up and move from city life in Paris and invested in farm life in Tuscany. They bought an old home and have spent the past two years learning how to be olive oilers. Wine harvest season is generally in October, but for olive growers it is generally in December. It is believed that by December, olives are ripe and juicy enough to fall naturally from the trees, thereby producing the greatest amount of oil. [btw: nets are laid down in late October to start catching the olives so you can avoid all the hand picking.] The December time frame is for everyone BUT the people who live in Tuscany who espouse the virtues of a blended oil (ripe olives are mixed with some of their greener brethren.) This is an example of supreme rationalization. Harvesting olives in December (at least in Tuscany) means wearing winter jackets and gloves and standing out in the cold for hours. Harvesting in November means light jackets and sunny days. This is probably why I could never be an olive oil tycoon. I imagine no one would want to buy an olive oil that was harvested in September (when I would still be wearing shorts!)

The hunt for tartufo

I headed to Alba, the epicenter for Italian black and (when in season) white truffles. I was fully prepared to get knee deep in muck following pigs around as they snorted down the delectable fungi, but I didn't have to do much mucking around. It seems that the Italians have found a cleaner (and less smelly) way to find the tartufo. They use dogs. The pigs, it seems, act as pigs do and while they snort, they also tend to mangle. Dogs, on the other hand, are daintier and less prone to trample the rare mushrooms which can cost a (caution: hyperbole ahead) gazillion dollars an ounce. In the end, I found it was easier to find the truffles without the help of any animal and just walked in to a store.

No Country for Old Cows

For a place where eating meat and cheese are national pasttimes, I have seen only two cows. The rolling hillsides are perfect for uddered animals, yet none roam. It seems that, in Italy, cows do not get put out to pasture as land is at a premium (better suited for growing grapes or olives). While the thought of cows living their lives indoors unsettles me, I seem to quickly forget my qualms as I drown my breadstick in tallegio. I guess I will never be a spokesperson for PETA.

Spineto Scrivia

This is your typical Piedmont region town. The church stands in the center of the piazza, there is one bar/cafe where the town people (350 of them) meet to gossip and have their morning espresso. The land around it is filled with vineyards, bee keepers, and fruit agriculturists, and everyone stops what they are doing between 12:30pm and 3pm to enjoy what life has to offer them.
At night, parents frolic with their children in tow, and when it gets too late .. well, kids are resourceful!

Highlights from the Emilia-Romagna Region

Parma. Land of parmesan cheese and parma ham. You cannot help but fall in love. If you are a vegetarian, you might feel differently as the smell of cured ham hangs heavily over the city. It is also one of the few places in north-central Italy I have traveled to where I saw non-tourist non-Caucasians.













Castell Arquato is a medieval town tucked between the rolling hills that this region is known for. The town is small and all roads leading up to the castle are steep and cobble stoned. I wonder what happens to the people who live here when it rains. Perhaps they all head to Casa Benna.
Casa Benna attracted my attention because unlike most things in Italy, it says that it is open all the time. Imagine, a place you can get wine at all hours. I have found heaven on earth, and its tour guide is Maria Benna. Who wouldn't want to sample wine from this lady ... in fact, I was ready to buy before she opened the first bottle (actually I opened the bottles as her hands looked like they have done enough wine uncorking and pasta rolling for three lifetimes!)

How to not look American when ordering Italian coffee

You might think you are a whiz at navigating through the Starbucks size system, and you might have firm opinions on whether to freeze or not freeze your coffee beans, but for all your java mojo, you will look like a jerk if you come to Italy and order an Cafe Americano. But the problem is, sometimes you just want a plain cup of black coffee. Here is how to get it done without revealing your national identity. Order an espresso, wait a beat and then pretend to remember that you also need some hot water (maybe you are one of those types who drink their water hot). Give the motion for another, bigger cup (in case your Italian is not up to snuff, this is where charades comes in handy) ... for all the waiter knows, you might be ordering the hot water for someone else who might be joining you. Once all is said and done, take the bigger cup, pour your expresso into it, pour in a healthy splash of the aqua caldo and viola: black coffee without looking like an American goofball.

Miracle Mud?

You will be hard pressed to find Montecatini in tour books, but it world renowned for its miracle waters and muds. The waters are for bathing or drinking (depending on your condition), and the mud is for slathering. I figured when in Montecatini to do as the Montecatinians do, and got slathered. Isabella generously glopped at least 5 pounds of local mud on my face and left me facially weighted down for 20 minutes. When my time was up, she returned with her pail and shovel and dug me out. A mini hose filled with thermal water was then used (at full pressure no less) to make sure I didn't walk away with any miracle mud as a souvenir. Little does Isabella know that I swallowed some before she rinsed me off. Hey, you never know when you need a little miracle.

Who shops here?

I don't want to pass judgement (I prefer instead to infer), but this mannequin spoke volumes to me. Imagine if every shop showcased their clothes to fit the sizes they were designed for. I wonder if people would shop less? Perhaps this is why the Italian economy is doing so poorly.

Under the Tuscan Sun

Forte dei Marmi is a small(ish) beachside town in Tuscany. There are relatively no tourists and most people travel around on their bicycles or on foot. The local wines are better than some of the best wines I have had in the states and the alcohol volume is far greater.




The older woman stand knee deep in the water discussing the virtues of frutti di mer in white versus red sauce, while the children play made up games of kadima in a sandbox versus halo. For all the reconfigured food triangles and attempts to revive the antiquated U.S. physical education system, perhaps we should just force American youngsters outside with nothing more than their imaginations.

Georgio where are you?

Lake Como, Italy is known for many things, but of late it has become synonomous with the place where George Clooney summers. So, I went in search. Lake Como sits at a mountain base (views of the Alps are visable), and razor-thin roads lead you around the lake from the bustling city of Lake Como to the more serene village of Domaso. The midway point is Bellagio (which, for those of you following along, is my B for this trip. Botswana took more planning.) Along the way, I found roadways built for one car, but used by two; homes so grand, yet whose entrances are marred by the scars vehicles have left by trying to squeeze past one another; ubiquitous gelato bars; fashion-forward residents, but no George. So long as he is not off filming Oceans 14 ...

Meet Marco

There is this Italian guy who we will call Marco (because it sounds Italian and because it is his name), and we got to know one another through this very blog. He stumbled upon my yearning posts from Afghanistan where there was no red wine to be found. It is easy to write about many disastrous things in Afghanistan, yet I chose to focus on the lack of red wine as after a hard day of AK-47s and burquas, all I wanted was a nice of vino rosso. Anyway, Marco wrote to me and told tale of his home in the Piedmont region of Italy that overlooked vineyards and where there was an abundance of red wine. He said I was invited to stay at his guest villa once I safely returned from Afghanistan. Well, a year later (and many exchanged emails), I took him up on it. So here is the first picture of new new e-friend Marco and his wife, Carol, as we enjoyed as much red wine as Italy had to offer. I look forward to sampling even more!

The Orient Express it isn't ...

You haven't truly experienced India until you've taken a commuter train. There are no reserved seats, there are no limitations to how many can fit on a seat, and the bathrooms? Well, unless you are skilled at relieving yourself through a small hole in the ground as pebbles, dust and other debris comes flying up at you, let me suggest you refrain from eating or drinking a day before you take the train.
While the "rule" is to always let women go first (meaning, as a woman you can actually cut to the front of the line), the rule doesn't apply to train travel. As soon as the train is seen coming in to the station, men, women, children start to run alongside, grabbing on to the bars and swinging their bodies on board. It is like watching Spiderman training. The theory behind the grand grab is if you are not on first, you won't get a seat. I didn't know this is how it worked. So I waited. Amazingly, the door stopped right in front of me. What a stroke of luck! I couldn't have been more wrong. The ensuing mass of people crushed me towards the train; squeezing me against the people who were trying to exit. It was a stalemate, until I realized I was starting to levitate. I looked around and began to see the crowd below me. All I could see was the torso and legs of a woman directly behind me. I didn't know if she was an old or young woman. I don't know whether she was fat or thin. All I knew was a headless woman had hoisted me on her shoulders to get me out of the way and on board more quickly. Once on board, the continuing crush of people pushed me towards a seat. The best analogy I can think to give is imagine you are swimming in the ocean and you've just gotten tagged by a wave. Instead of fighting it, you have to let it bang you around, drag you down to the ground, and trust that it will eventually release you. You might have pounds of sand in your bathing suit, but at least you made it. This is what getting on board a commuter train was like. Minus the sand in my pants.

The Manipulative Monkey

The thief approaches and signs "I'm hungry."
He does his best to appear demure.

Once I find a granola bar to share, the hairy monster reveals his true size and unfurls his nasty tail. More, More .. he says (in body language). I was no match for him. He wiped me out. Took the last of my snack. All without a thank you. Monkey bastard!

The best little drive-through in Mumbai ...

I don't think Big Daddy's (the English name) is on Zagat or Michelin's food radar, but I think it is one of Bombay's best eats. The "restaurant" is comprised of parking spaces and curbside carts that grill up the most delectable meat/vegetable kebobs and tikkis. The preferred "tables" are car hoods which are leveled by glass bottles (see picture). The seats? Well, this is a standing room only kind of place where the napkins are the clothes on your (or your dining companion's) back. If you want to find this gem it is behind the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel in the Colaba section of Mumbai.

Gem scammed

There’s warning to travelers in the Lonely Planet about various gem scams in India. The scam essentially works like this: you get befriended my a nice Indian man (or two) who offers you fantastic hospitality at no cost to you (perhaps free beers or dinners or tours of the city). When they have you were they want you, they will bring up a business proposition that has you agreeing to carry a bagful of precious stones back to your country where you will meet with a gem person, sell the bagful of gems you have been toting, and get a stake in the profit. First you will need to leave some money for “good faith” since presumably you will have hundreds of thousands of gems. The scam is that these gems are worthless, and the money you put down in good faith, is never returned to you. I knew about this scam before traveling to Jaipur so I was prepared. What I wasn’t prepared for was how slick the operators really are. In my case, I met two brothers, Samir and Sabir. Sabir had an “official” tourist car, and he and his younger brother split driving duties. They never brought up costs, they treated me to chais (tea), they even invited e to attend their family Eid celebration. I was hooked on this family. But then they introduced me to their friend and boss, Tony Ali. This was what he called himself at least. Tony lived in a house the size of an India city block. He spoke six languages flawlessly. His family, he said, was in the jewelry trade and had been for years. He also owned a disco and some hotels. Wouldn’t I like a VIP-treated night at his disco. Wouldn’t I like some whiskey? After I said “no” a few dozen different ways, he finally said, “I have a business proposition.” Here it came. He was going to try to scam me. It clearly wouldn’t work as I was on to him. What did work, was that I got conned into thinking these twp brothers were nice and honest people. Maybe one of them is. But I know that the bond between Indian brothers means nothing goes unsaid and if one of them is working to find marks, the other is in on it too. So my scam story doesn’t end in loss of money and fake rocks, but it ends with an abrupt severing to a once promising, albeit short, friendship. It felt awful. Not because I felt I had been "had", but because I started to feel cynical to other offers of hospitality. Here is where I have a choice: close up and don’t trust, or let myself be open on the chance I will meet another truly lovely person. Thankfully, I believe in taking chances.

Shopping Secrets Revealed

Almost everything in India can be haggled. From the price of food, to taxis, to hotels; the set price is never the set price. The one exception is entrance fees to monuments or shrines. But the fact that haggling exists isn’t a secret. What doesn’t get shared often is when the best time to shop really is. It's been my experience that you can get far greater deals and have much better bargaining success if you shop in the morning. Most Indian shopkeepers subscribe to “luck.” They believe that as long as they make that first sale of the day, they will be blessed with more sales throughout the day. At one point, a shopkeeper went even lower than my “last and final offer” because he was so scared he was going to lose out on his luck if I walked away. Now that's buying power. (the photo is of a typical shopping center at night. The second best time to shop).

Cinema Paradiso

Jaipur is home to one of India's biggest cinemas, the Raj Mandir. It is an art deco monster from the outside, and the inside looks like you have been swallowed by a whale. No Bollywood experience would be complete without a hefty amount of audience participation. Babies cried. Children danced in the aisles. Men whistled and women shrieked with glee. The audience was actually better than the movie, "Aaja Nachle", translated to "Let's Dance" for those who would like to Netflix it. It didn't matter that the film was mostly in Hindi and I got lost on a couple of relatively important plot points (e.g. why did they want to dance anyway?). What I found interesting was that the film focused on a strong, sexy female who overcomes odds and obstacles (plot spoiler: she "wins" in the end) in a culture where women are often disregarded. What was neat was how the audience seemed to eat it up, so perhaps India is ready for a little female love and respect after all. Oh, and for all of the sexual tension that existed, there was no on-screen kissing. Blast!

Ranthambore National Park

Ranthambore is the only place to spot wild tigers in Rajastan. Much has been written about the countless seekers who have gone home disappointed after not seeing a single tiger. That is not my story.

On a lark, I went in search of a tiger. I booked no tickets for the safari (which usually is booked weeks in advance), and took my chances that I would get on one of the 20 seats that are released day of. My chances paid off. Big time.

After seeing monkeys (who goes on safari in India to see what you can see on the the streets?), some crocodiles, and an owl, we came across three lounging tigers. Three. Did I mention people hope to see just one? This picture cannot do justice to what I have only seen behind bars at a zoo. The beauty of the beasts are matched only by the Taj Mahal. The difference is that my pictures of the Taj came out less fuzzy.

Sisters

This is Puja and Sandoori. They live at the train station in Jaipur because that is where they said goodbye to their mother one month ago. Their mother went to Dehli in search of work and they hope she will come for them. So they wait. Puja is 12, but looks more like 7. She takes care of her baby sister who is one. I watched as Puja begged (sucessfully) for chipati (bread) and fed it to her sister. Puja says she doesn't get cold at night even though I have been chilled despite wearing two layers of fleece to bed. Sandoori has lesions all over her body. The kind that look like bed sores, but (considering their environment) is more likely to be some type of flesh eating bacteria. There doesn't appear to be a shelter of any kind for homeless children in Jaipur (a city of 3 million). With so many charitable people in the world, I am surprised that little has been done for the countless homeless girls who have been forgotten on India's streets. Perhaps it is because the charitable people don't ride India's commuter rails where these children are found. This is why I introduce you to them. They deserve a second glance. And Puja, in Hindi, means prayer.