Trick or treat

This was going to be a Wordsworth-like, eloquently-quotable tribute to the beauty of India, but, well, things happened. After all, it was Halloween, even if it's not really celebrated here by anyone except American expats.

This morning I was on my way to get a head massage, even though SOME might suggest getting my head "fixed" instead. It was/is beautiful weather, like a perfect Minnesota summer day. Delhi is a completely different (and better) place when the temperature goes below 90 and cool breezes blow at night. In fact, it's wonderful.

I took a couple of pictures of the park-like environment of my neighborhood, so that people like Aunt Lilli could see that it's actually pretty around here.


The photo on the left is actually intended for Highlights magazine for children (side note: How sad that young people today have never heard of my old friends "Goofus and Gallant" - no wonder their manners are so poor!)
Q: Children, what is missing from this intersection?
A: street signs!

One has to get to know Delhi by feel, intuition, or any means other than looking for street names. On my walk today, I had written down instructions AND drawn a little map. The plan was to go to the salon for the head massage and then walk from there to a bookstore that I'd heard about from a fellow Hindi student. Why anyone would plan to walk about 10 miles the day before a 7K race . . . on the other hand, why "taper" when your entire training program has been all about the value of tapering?

Walking along at a brisk pace, I was in a terrific mood. I remember thinking, as I walked, that what I liked about India is that it doesn't make sense, which matches my view of life in general. In Minnesota, one can begin to believe (unless they work at EHS) that life DOES make sense, that good people are rewarded in life, and that things happen in a rational way . Then something happens that doesn't make sense and you can go crazy, literally, trying to force it into sense-making mode. But here you don't have to worry about that. I passed a sign (wish I'd taken THIS picture) that said "Caution. Men at Work." And in front of the sign, which a man was watching, apparently to make sure it remained fixed in place on a stable stand, were about 10 women, crouching, painting the curb in black and yellow stripes. As women working on construction sites here usually do, they wore colorful saris.

Unfortunately, the next picture I considered taking does not appear here, which may seem obvious to you since it doesn't exist (philosopher alert). But I did find out, the hard way, that seeming like you are taking pictures of the Prime Minister's residence, even if you don't know what it is and even if there are no signs, is verboten. Security guards ran over to me after I aimed my camera, then more people came over with walkie-talkies, then they insisted that I stay at the guard post until the local police came. My first two reactions were:

• ha, ha, this will be so funny for my blog; and
• wait, I'm going to be late for my head massage (grrr. . . no one keeps me from my massage appointments)

My next reaction, after four police officers arrived, and along with three security guards were standing around me, creating a scene that was attracting onlookers, was to decide that maybe this wasn't so funny after all, even though there were still humorous moments, like when they were copying down all of the information from my school id (lesson learned: always carry my passport) like the name of our school nurse and the phone numbers of the closest hospitals.

So I called our school's business director, which may seem like a strange choice if you don't work here, but it's sort of the equivalent of calling Cindy Heim if you work at Edina High School, or praying to God if you don't. He then called our school's security director, who I guess has some connection with the police department (crimebusters unite!) and talked to one of the police officers on the phone after I repeatedly held the receiver by his ear, since he did not want to talk to anyone who would help me, which started to worry me. Then the school security chief sent someone over with a car to "assist" me. At the time, I was getting more and more annoyed by the fact that I was missing my massage appointment and thinking about how ironic it was that I was going to NEED a massage after all of this. There was a lot of questioning me about when I was born, since I suppose that terrorists often try to confuse the police by switching the month and date and writing 2/25 on their ID cards rather than the 25.2 that would be proper here. And their suspicions were only increased by my claim that I had walked there, since Westerners here just don't do crazy things like that.

What I did not realize was that a couple of days earlier, an American had been taken into custody for some kind of security threat, and that the security threat level had been raised. I suppose that here they have an entire rainbow of security threat colors, because there actually ARE serious incidents regularly, so it was perhaps raised from blue to purple. And I walked right into this situation, blithely unaware that I appeared to be targeting the #1 man in India by "casing the joint" shortly before my presumed attack. Thus the reason, perhaps, that they looked at me, surprised, when I said I was a "teacher." Actually, as a middle-aged woman wearing the terrorist trademark Keen sandals, I'm sure that I fit the profile of the typical American suicide bomber. Luckily they did not see the strange directions and map in my pocket ("Take the second left after the big field. Go sort of right at the next roundabout.")

I sat there at the guard house for an hour. While we were waiting, one of the guards instructed me to write a "statement" on a plain white piece of paper. He assured me of his proficiency in English. Then he instructed me to write "I will delete the pictures that I took here" and seemed uninterested in the fact that I hadn't actually taken any. Of course, I felt it necessary to start with my plans for the entire day, then moved on to the picture-not-taking event, then to my current state of mind. He was watching closely as I wrote, and his brow became increasingly furrowed as my indecipherable handwriting continued for line after line. Finally he said, "Aha," and happily pointed out that I had written "the President's house" when it should have been "the Prime Minister's house." This was how I found out what I'd (not) taken a picture of. I'm sure the guard thought: "Jeez, don't terrorists these days know anything? "


This is the picture that I did not take, but apparently anyone with internet access can see what PM Singh's house looks like, so the secret is out.




Meanwhile, the police were taking my school ID over to their headquarters to make a copy (no copying machine at the Prime Minister's house? This sounds like EHS!) and when they returned, one officer was wearing my beaded lanyard around his neck and I thought about joking around that he looked pretty in it, but decided against the wisdom of that move. Finally, Arjun (the man from school) and I were permitted to leave, an hour after I was first stopped.

It looks like I will not become a political prisoner and that my dream of becoming Nelson Mandela's BFF may have to wait.

The good news was that I was still able to get the head massage. In addition, realizing that life is short and that I could have been shot, I also splurged on a manicure and pedicure, and even got colored polish (!) If I have to die, I want to look good.

The bad news - as soon as I got into the car with Arjun and asked him whether I could have gone to jail and he said "Yes," I felt like a person who has just barely avoided being hit by a truck, and I started to shake, literally. In fact, when I got home after the massage, and throughout the evening, everything seemed somewhat unreal: the school Fall Festival that I helped supervise, the haunted house that left me with a hearing loss, the staff party where I went as a melancholy judge with my "Federalist" wig - they all seemed far away from the reality inside my head. I wanted a hug. And I felt really far away from home. And I felt a distinct pang of fear every time I thought about taking a picture, ever.

Do you think the fact that it was Halloween, when everyone is dressed up as someone else, could have enhanced the "unreal" effect?

But then there were fireworks that I could see from my window. Yes, without even moving from my perch in front of the computer, I was entertained by the Fall Festival fireworks - there were some even more dramatic ones, but I was taking pictures with a flash until I realized that I was just getting a reflection of myself in the glass. But I was taking pictures again! Back in the saddle!

After I came back from the party (ok, I confess it was only 9:30), I realized that I could still see the action on the neighboring rooftop patio, just across from my kitchen window . So long after I was supposed to be getting sleep in preparation for my 7K race the next morning, I was sneaking into a dark kitchen to see how the other half was living. They were dancing like crazy. Apparently several cranberry, vodka, and soda drinks, along with a jello shot or two, enhances the belief that one can dance well. Meanwhile, I was standing in the kitchen in my pajamas, watching people having fun. "Pathetic" reaches new depths.

Then someone took a flash picture with my window in the background. So they'll put it up on Facebook and suddenly notice the eyes of Ellen peeking over the kitchen windowsill in the background. Sort of like the "grassy knoll" photos - aha! There's the culprit!

So my lessons learned from today?

1. Ask before taking pictures.
2. Don't let being surrounded by policemen with guns ruin your day, especially if it's Halloween and things are supposed to be a little scary.
3. There are a lot of things to celebrate, loudly.
4. Don't leave the party early.
5. Get out there and dance, drink or no drink. It's way more fun than standing in a dark kitchen in your pajamas.

The identities of the people in the picture below are a national secret, for obvious reasons.

Next time, I'll dig the latrines

Just returned last night from the five-day vacation adventure with 17 students known fondly here as "mini-course," a misnomer if you're thinking anything along "school" lines. I read through the descriptions of all 23 courses offered last Spring, before I came here, and my first choice was "Hills of the Gahrwal" - a trekking and rafting trip in the Himalayan foothills. Images of the Von Trapp family climbing the Austrian mountains to safety while singing "The Hills are Alive" were swirling through my head. And rafting? Aren't people always smiling in the pictures? My second choice was "Rural Rajasthan," where the group would do yoga, learn about organic farming, and dig a new latrine for a village. Nah, too slow.

"Hills of the Gahrwal" was a bit different from The Sound of Music. It started with a midnight to 4 AM train ride. No, it's not ok if the boys are in the girls' sleeper cabin. No, I'm sorry, I don't trust you. What do you mean by "not doing anything?" By 1 AM we had that worked out. Then at 3 AM the tour company guide whose role was just to make sure we didn't jump off the train, apparently, woke me up to tell me that the train was delayed and that we wouldn't be in until 4:20 AM. Thanks, lady. I think she then stood by the curtain of my narrow and uncomfortable sleeping berth (on the aisle - this was not first class), sighing every two minutes, until she woke me up again at 3:30 to tell me that I should wake everyone up. She walked with me through the train car to make sure that I followed through. Everyone was up (including the folks in the car who weren't getting off at our stop and had no reason to get up) and waiting - then the train didn't arrive until close to 5, reducing my credibility from bad to none. The other chaperone? I plead the Fifth. Let's just say that some teachers put being "cool" first. I've never been cool, so this was not an issue for me. But for the first day or so, I took on the identity of "she." "She" said that we had to . . . ."She won't let us . . . ."

We arrived at the Himalayan River Runners camp after a harrowing ride on a mountainside road under construction. Fortunately most of us were so tired that we bounced ourselves to sleep on the bus to base camp. We got to camp at 6:30 AM and my colleague promptly asked if we could delay our first rafting trip so "the kids" could sleep. Guess who went to sleep. Hint: not the kids. This was an ongoing theme throughout the next five days. I was the junior chaperone, so I avoided causing waves, but it went like this.

Senior chaperone: "Ellen, we're going to be tough."
Ellen: "Ok"
Senior chaperone to kids: "Whatever"
Ellen "??"
Senior chaperone: "These kids never have any down time. I say, you either give them a bunch of rules or you let them relax and enjoy themselves for a few days."
Ellen: Um, ok.
Senior chaperone announces rules: (doesn't happen)
Kids: "Woo-hoo, let's go crazy!"
Senior Chaperone: "Zzzzzz"
Ellen: "Get out of the girls' tent, guys." "It's 11 PM. Turn the music down, please. TURN THE MUSIC DOWN or I'm going to throw your speakers over the edge of the mountain!" "I don't know why you're so hysterical, but you're way too loud, and unless you want me to wake Senior Chaperone up and find out what the story is, I'd better not hear another word from you!" "If you're going to bring marshmallows to the campfire, you can't just share them with your two best friends in front of everyone else."

The best/worst part (and teachers everywhere will recognize this ploy) was the last morning when I told Senior Chaperone about the loud and giggly boys the previous night who had definitely been high on something but I couldn't figure out what. So S.C. told me that they can buy a type of marijuana in the villages that is edible, so no smoking necessary. Then S.C. said, "Don't worry. We'll have a powwow about this behavior after breakfast."
Ellen naiively believes this.
After breakfast -S.C. says, "OK, everyone, before we get ready to go, let's have a talk."
(Ellen sits back and thinks "at last!")
S.C." I had a great time with all of you on this trip. There are 19 people who did this with you, and you need to thank the other 18 with a hug or a handshake. Then I'm collecting tip money for the guides, ok? (pause) And Ms. G. has something she would like to say."
Ms. G.(that's me): (Thought: WHA???) Words: "Um, yea, I liked being with, uh, all of you and, um, except for last night I thought some of you did some, um, stuff that wasn't supposed to happen and, uh, I'm disappointed in your violation of (thought: what the hell am I saying? Do they even have any idea what I'm talking about?) trust, well, because I'm a trusting person and (thought: no I'm not - I'm a naiive person, but trusting? ) anyway, um, I think you should have shared your snacks and yea, I had a good time getting to know all of you better."

Guess which chaperone wins the popularity prize?

The base camp we stayed in the first night was wonderful. Five-star camping. Even the pit toilets had western-style toilet seats built up over them. The site was on a lovely sand beach at the edge of the Ganges, tents facing the green and yet unpolluted upper river rapids.

This was the first morning, when we were waiting for S.C. to awaken. That's Anjali on the beach, who became my right-hand person on the trip. She could understand both Hindi and Nepali, and taught me some great sayings, like "No panga on the Ganga," or "Don't mess with me on the Ganges or I'll knock your raft over." Well, something like that.





The second morning we said goodbye to toilet seats until the last day and prepared for our trek. I was woefully unprepared for this multi-stage trip, bringing just two sets of clothes and thinking that I could just wash a few things out here and there. S.C. was the only one who had done this before and knew to leave a clean outfit at the base camp for our return. The rest of us ended up wet and shivering on the beach the last day, waiting for our packs to arrive from our last stop, while S.C. took a warm shower and changed. (Are you detecting any resentment here? If so, it's totally unintentional.)

The last step in preparing for our 3-day mountain trek departure - putting on my beloved hiking boots. I put on the right boot, then . . .wait . . .this one's for the right foot, too. (Denial begins) Maybe I could just put this second boot on the left foot anyway.
ARGHHH! I took Amy's right boot along with mine! This along with bringing a twin-sized mattress pad for my queen-sized Indian hard mattress! And deciding for some Godforsaken reason that I didn't need my Teva sandals, leaving me with a pair of converted Keen bike sandals to wear while rafting!
Then I realized that I would be wearing those very same sandals for the trek. You know how bike sandals sort of have the toe higher than the heel? Yup, just try hiking down slippery, mossy rocks on a skinny trail with mountain on one side and a sheer cliff on the other. Especially when you have a fear of heights so severe that during previous mountain trail hikes you've been known to crawl, hold hands with strangers, and ask for mercy from any known or unknown deities, promising yourself, "never again."

Thus began the 3-day trek that resulted in muscles so sore from trying not to slip and fall that I could hardly step down from the bus on the last day. Fortunately, one of us had to volunteer to go last, along with the guide, Ram, and I was willing to do that on the first day. Actually, no one asked me, but if they had, I would have volunteered. But I did it anyway, since S.C. took off with the "official" trekking guide, Vitu, in the front. While Vitu told the folks at the head of the pack local stories and pointed out interesting sites, I was at the back. Well, ok, that's fine . . . but as the day wore on, and the uphill wasn't turning into flat as had been . . . promised? suggested? - the quick pace began to separate the enthusiastic trekkers from the ones who were in back with me, saying things like:
"I hate this stupid trek. Why can't I just go home? This was my 10th choice. I hate AES. Where are the others? Why can't I see them? "
And Ram and I would coax the couple of students into continuing to walk, until, 50 yards later, "Crash" came the pack onto the ground, as the student collapsed once again into a heap.
I was beginning to lose my patience, as this was the first day and I was feeling pretty strong, bike sandals and all.
Then we started talking about books and why I didn't think that Twilight was the "best book EVER," and I asked the MFS (most frequent stopper) what the story was about. Not only was this good for the remaining three hours of Day 1, but it continued on the latter half of Day 2, after MFS got tired, and by Day 3 I was really eager to hear more about Victoria and her evil plots against Bella, a pathetic young woman who couldn't seem to function without a dependency on semi-human males with tragic flaws, as I was having a hard time walking downhill and wanted an excuse for being 50 yards behind everyone else.



Here are a couple of Twilight-loving students, happily willing to stop and pose in front of some marigolds.









The second morning was the low point of an otherwise amazing adventure. We woke up at 5 AM for the "30-minute hike" to a vantage point from which we would be able to see the much-touted "sunrise over the Himalayas." Bike sandals donned along with weak headlamp that allowed me to see about 6 inches ahead of my feet, I headed up the hill. Our guide, from the area, was obviously part mountain goat, as he sprang up the steep grassy hill with no apparent path and a lot of rocks waiting to trip unsuspecting chaperones. After about 15 minutes, I was having a hard time catching my breath, I was clutching onto thorny branches trying to keep my balance in the slippery grass, and I had no idea where the people in front of me had gone. So, setting the example that failure is always an option, I sat down in the grass and thought about crying, but half of the students were still behind me. Upon seeing me sitting down, they all decided that they should follow suit, despite my gestures telling them to pass me. Eventually, I got back up and made it to the top in time to see the sunrise, but the students behind me decided that the sunrise from halfway up was just fine with them.

It was worth it to get to the top. The quiet was REALLY quiet. No ipod speakers, even. And slowly, as the pink sky brightened and the sun came up, it lit up the snow-capped mountains and we could see the Gangotri range for the first time.
I took a picture of Vitu, who was looking over the mountains in the other direction, where his village is. He told me the story of the mountain and how it got it's name (but do I remember? It was something about sacrificing yaks). He was quiet, thin, and handsome.








Ram, the trekking and rafting guide who was from Nepal, kept me entertained when the Twilight storyteller was unavailable. He taught me a couple of Nepali folk songs (but do I remember them? something about love and/or sacrificing a yak) and told me about his family. He works for five months and then goes home for a month to see his wife and two young sons. Do the math - he sees his sons for two months a year. Wow - how can he seem so happy? Men working away from their families is pretty common here, if they want to make a decent living. But even so, it must be hard. Of course the students did not see a problem with this or with the fact that porters their own ages were carrying packs twice their size, using ropes around their foreheads and wearing flip-flops to run up and down the paths that our fancily-shoed feet were cautiously edging their way down. It's humbling to step aside as 8 porters run past you carrying 50-pound sacks of carrots and potatoes, or tents and chairs on one shoulder with an arm around the load.
"But, Ms. G., they're used to it."

Ram's been working for Himalayan River Runners for six years. He talks to his wife on his cell phone most days. I never saw Ram rest.Whereas the lady on the left did not wash any dishes, set up any tents, build any campfires, or cook her own meals for five days.

We passed a number of terraced farms. It looked like a lot of work for not a lot of food. But the terraces were lovely to look at from a distance, and the farms were neatly organized, not counting the trash that the residents threw on the path.

According to Ram, the farms grew millet, chili peppers, and some kind of plant that he said was made into flour, but I did not recognize the plant. But the colors of the mysterious plant, along with drying chili peppers, brightened the landscape.












Chili peppers dried in the sun on top of mud platforms that the villagers made by hand, rubbing fresh mud onto them and letting it dry. Most villagers were standing on these platforms and/or the path as we hiked past, and I realized that we were on parade. They greeted us in a friendly way. I noticed that a lot of the children looked like they had eye infections or vision impairments or both - vision looked cloudy, and/or their focus looked odd. And the adults, like most adults you see in rural India, were small and thin, about the size of healthy 11-year-olds in the US.
"But, Ms. G., they're used to it."

The campsite the second night was at a lower elevation but the view of the Gangotri was still with us. Unfortunately, the best picture I got of the mountains was with the toilet tents in the foreground. (Himalayan camping tip: Beware of toilet tents being moved without your knowledge, causing you to nearly step into the former waste pit filled over with dirt and lime.)

A number of people "happened" to wander through our campsite, including young boys and old men, to check us out. This was the night that the Nepalese and Gahrwali porters wanted to exchange folk songs by the campfire. They went first, singing two songs and showing us the dances that went with the songs (where did they get so much energy, after hauling stuff uphill all day?). Then it was our turn.
Folk songs? These are international students who have some connection with the US but have not heard of songs like "This Land is Your Land," or "500 Miles." They made some half-hearted attempts at a response, singing the beginning of "The Barbie Song" and "Hannah Montana." I was mortified and sad at the same time. Then one boy did an air guitar version of the Pokemon song, which impressed at least one Nepalese man. "Pretty nice," he said. I tried suggesting more songs: "Michael row the boat ashore?" "Blowing in the Wind?"
Huh? Never heard of those songs, Ms. G.
Finally I couldn't take it anymore, and I said, "OK, I'll sing a song." It's amazing what embarrassment can do. And I sang "If I Had a Hammer." Despite the giggles of a group of ninth graders, I made it through, and even though I didn't do a dance to accompany the song (anyone know the traditional "If I Had a Hammer" dance?), it seemed to satisfy the Nepalese men, who had been staring at the students as if they were from another planet (in many ways, they were).

The last couple of days we went rafting. It seemed incredibly easy - even "the Wall," the Class IV rapid that flipped our raft over and left me tumbling through what seemed like a black hole of water for about 20 interminable seconds, was a passive exercise. Who would've thought that a Class IV rapid would be relaxing? I did discover that I like rafting, and rapids seem to make me laugh and cheer, almost as if I were enthusiastic - I hardly recognized myself at those moments.
See me in the lower right-hand corner? Actually, I stole this picture from the web - it was interesting to note that NO river rafting company's websites show rafts flipping over. When we flipped, I didn't even notice - one minute we were paddling like hell to try to get over a wave, and I remember noticing that we were going backwards instead of forwards - but the next second I was swirling underwater. After we all recovered, it seemed that everyone else remembered the actual fall but me - but I was fortunate: "You hit me on the head with your paddle." "You fell into me and pushed me off the raft." "Something hit me on the back." Somehow I must've slipped into the water without much damage.

And now we're back, and I'm SOOO tired. But it's Divali weekend, yet another excuse for the constant fireworks around here. If there's ever a terrorist attack, no one will suspect for awhile, since there are multiple firework explosions daily.

Right now I'm wondering just how hard it could be to dig a latrine. Next year's trip - ?

Signs, signs, everywhere there're signs . . . .

I really should be in bed now, but I just downloaded some pictures from visiting Jaipur (the "pink city") over the past couple of days, and I wanted to share some of the MANY entertaining signs here. One that does not appear here, because sometimes things happen when you don't have your camera ready, is the sign we passed in a rickshaw advertising "Guru Placement Services." Tom Fink, apply here for your next placement.

Anyone reading this must realize already that I have a fondness for grammar and usage errors when it comes to signs, though I have less tolerance for those issues in papers my students write.
Here's a Mumbai park sign that shows a simple and direct approach to writing - no grammar errors for this author. It tells you exactly what you're supposed to pick up "after your dog." Don't you wonder what non English-speakers think when they see our euphemistic signs in the U.S.? Pick up my dog? Stand up taller like my dog?

Here's one that suggests the ultimate coffee experience, in the Bandra neighborhood of Mumbai, for those of you who would like to try it out. I had not thought of combining these two activities before, but apparently these two nubile maidens approve, so maybe this can be my new source of caffeine (Does anyone need or want caffeine when getting a tattoo?)

By the way, I discovered by accidentally clicking on one of the blog pictures that if you do so, you will see every detail, including close-ups of skin pores, inappropriate language, or the type of cappucino that "Al" serves, in the picture.

Last but not least, this one's for the girls. If you've been looking for this, then now you know that Jaipur's the place. Apparently, though, he's closed on Sundays. Wouldn't you know that that's the day I visited his place? Oh well, if anyone gets there while he's available, tell me about the experience.
Fortunately, Raymond was not there to witness what we had just seen, which was a motorbike rider crashing into an old man (age is actually sometimes hard to discern here) and knocking him down. A couple of men next to him helped him get up, which was difficult for him to do - even with his cane - but neither the motorbike operator or passenger got off the bike. In fact, as soon as it appeared that the man would not need hospitalization (though he looked like he needed food, clothing, and a health plan), they took off. Not that I'm generalizing, but I now hate motorbike riders - at least those who hit old disabled men and then ride off without even helping him back up.

But, and this is especially for Aunt Lilli (aka "Anonymous"), or others who may think that India is not beautiful, here's the view from outside our hotel room, only a mile from Raymond's place, on Sat. evening. Imagine hearing the call to prayer (ok, it was a sound system, but it was still cool) while seeing this view.

Travel weary

Ah, yes, I'm sure that my tales of being "sick of travel" will evoke feelings of sympathy from you all. Actually, it's more about being too busy. It's my own fault that I'm traveling three weekends in a row, and each trip has been fun, but this week I've been feeling a bit, well . . . crabby. Any of you who know me well know how UNUSUAL such a mood would be for me.

Part of this is being tired - staying up too late to read and then getting up early (some things never change); part of this is that it's the end of the quarter and yes, I need to finish grading work for my 75 students ("shut up," says Mike Roddy).

And there's the issue of homesickness - more for friends and family than for my house or Edina High School. Reading the EHS emails keeps me from missing that world TOO much (or should I say Too! Much!), although I miss some students and my friendly colleagues. My mind wanders, remembering the people I love.


My daughters, those lovely and elegant creatures . . .
















My friends from the old neighborhood . . .

Great people, though they do get a little too into watching the "Golden Girls" reruns on TV (ha, ha, gals - remember karaoke?). But they have remained my friends for years, despite the ups and downs of life - Sherrie, does this count as an email?? Pat is holding up the walls at EHS this year, Diane (front and center) has been such a good friend to me through thick and thin, and Theresa has managed to extract information from me so successfully that she might as well have injected me with truth serum (my life is much more exciting through her eyes, I'm sure).
Then there's Melody, my buddy since Augsburg days . . .

and of course my students , those politically incorrect dears -






And, of course, last but far from least, my extended family -







Some of my male relatives relaxing in St. Petersburg (Russia) after a day of black market trading.

Witness the eating theme that denotes "Guerin"



Some might think it surprising that so much ice cream could be consumed at one sitting . . . not a Guerin.
The amazing thing about the photo on the left is that there is food available and Rich is NOT eating :). All in fun, Rich, all in fun. But Connie and Mike are so busy chowing down that they don't even have time to say "cheese."

As the flattering pose on the right demonstrates, I can hold my own with the best of the Guerin food-scarfers. Thank you, Anna, for always knowing when to take the best pictures.
Yes, friends and family - and then, of course, there's the mean lady in yoga class who told me to move my mat because she was there first.

So enough of this sad dwelling on far-away people. Want to hear about the trip to Mussoorie? It's about a six-hour train ride away. Train travel, it turns out, is not like the scene in "Gandhi" where everyone sits on top of the train. Instead, we took the 1st class AC "chair car," which is one step lower than the "Executive class AC car" (that's where you only have to look at a few other people, while the "chair car" is like a regular commuter train car - it was, to my surprise, better than any Northwest (oops, Delta) flight that I've taken in recent memory.

They served hot tea and "biscuits" right after we left Delhi, then breakfast, then a snack, then more tea, then a juice box. They handed us water bottles near the beginning of the trip, but you would have thought they were hand grenades - the announcement was repeated often, "Drink all of the water or DESTROY the bottles to avoid improper use." At first I thought this was some kind of weird threatening "Recycle or die" message, but I realized that they didn't want to get sued after some entrepreneur collected water bottles saying "India rail," refilled them with sewage water, and sold them to unsuspecting tourists.

The train was also incredibly cold, and loud. Apparently there is infinite tolerance here (or at least on that train) for out-of-control pre-adolescent boys. As they ran up and down the aisles screaming, people smiled as if this were actually PLEASANT! When I say screaming, I don't mean talking loudly or even yelling. I mean the banshee kind of "AAAAAAAAAH" So it was a bit hard to sleep. Sarah let me use her shawl to get warm enough to fall "asleep" (I tried) - but as I drifted in and out of nightmares about the movie "Alien," I heard another loud sound - newspaper being crumpled loudly. And it continued. Finally I opened my eyes and there was this newspaper-covered homeless person sitting next to me - no, wait, it was Sarah! Rather than wake me up to get her shawl back, she decided to put her Girl Scout " survival in the city" badge to good use. It looked pretty funny, though a bit passive-aggressive.

Oh, I forgot to mention the Delhi train station - the least pleasant part of our trip. When we got there, there was a huge board with the train names and times - wait, train names? Whatever happened to the old "Train to Wherever, leaves at X o'clock." In India, trains have names and accompanying personalities, I suppose. Anyway, we couldn't find our train's name on the list, so we decided to go out into the station - a mistake, we soon discovered, as the stench was unbelievable. It was like barrel-aged feces. And people were in all stages of washing, eating, cooking, and sleeping, all around, including between the tracks. I wondered if anyone there was actually going to take a train. Eventually, after trying not to breathe for about 20 minutes, I heard them announce our train, and it turned out that we had walked much further than we had to - I suppose that allowed us to determine that the stench was universal. So the air conditioned luxury of the train was a nice shock.

Mussoorie was great - the first place I've been to here where I actually felt cold (not including the train there and back). A taxi driver picked us up at the train station and we drove up and down and around on roads that felt like the "Octopus" ride at most amusement parks - hand me the barf bag, please. The town of Dehradun, where we arrived, seemed a little sketchy . . .













Step right up and buy your gun - notice that he doesn't just sell them, he makes them! Then there's good ol' "Homeo Hall" - every town should have one. Indian and . . . German? Dan Baron - you're going to have to check out the German connection here.

But the views were beautiful, as we climbed the mountain,and the cool air felt - hey, it's cold! Can we turn down the air conditioning in this car, driver? I never thought I would hear myself saying that in India. But the whole evening I felt cold - we even asked the waiter to turn on the space heater in the hotel dining room. Sarah felt sick as soon as we sat down to dinner, so when the soup came she dashed to the room, while I sat there feeling a bit uncomfortable in this hotel dining room, alone. Fortunately, after being away from Americans for several entire hours, we encountered five teachers from our school staying at the same hotel, and so they joined me in the dining room, where we had a lively conversation, filled with raucous laughter, that I'm sure the several couples sitting near us at this "Most Romantic" award-winning hotel appreciated. Why not keep the "Ugly American" image alive?

OK, so Mussoorie - the view disappeared into fog the next day and did not return, but hiking in the cool air was great. Sarah and I walked down quiet roads and up a deserted path, past a few makeshift houses with women chopping wood or doing the wash while the men . . . watched?
We stopped at a site labeled "Wishing Well," but I thought a more apt title would be "Washing Well."
There were two females there pulling up buckets of well water to scrub and rinse clothing with - and I assumed that they were the mothers of the two young boys who immediately came up to us and, in a manner reminiscent of numerous young Edinans' sales pitches, showed us their pledge card for contributions to help the aged. I had a lot of sympathy for their cause, especially after my first hike in weeks, so I fished out a 100-rupee note (about $2) for one of the boys, and Sarah gave the other boy the same amount. This, apparently, converted them into our disciples, as they followed us the remaining mile or so up the trail, occasionally asking us if we wanted to contribute more.
Finally we reached the "George Everest House," yes, the home of the person after whom Mt. Everest was named. Some British guy, I guess, because all evidence of this being an historic site was gone. The building was deteriorating, no signs, and nothing was inside except piles of cow dung. Yet here, in this deserted place, others had come before us . . . speaking of Mt. Everest, it was like reaching the top, planting the American flag, and discovering -
Yes, hundreds of people already there, grilling outside of the historic home - I asked one young man what was going on, and he said, "It's just a get-together," so I said, "You mean no one here knew each other before today?" - which he thought was very funny. Apparently it was a picnic, "just because," of the Institute for the Education of Administrators (in other words, bureaucracy school). They had taken the "short route" to this site, and here we thought we were the first visitors since Everest moved out.

On our way back down the hill, we ran into a little girl who was hanging out with our two "friends," the pledge card boys. She had a pledge card too, and while she was asking for a pledge, I realized that she was the "woman" I had seen doing the family wash. I gave her 100 rupees also, and I noticed that she had another pledge, this one for 5 rupees. No wonder that the boys had followed us so hopefully; we had apparently given them enough to get the "cricket pin;" another 100 rupees would get them the hat. (What is a "cricket hat?")

We also stopped at the "Municipal Garden," kind of like a combination of Como Park Zoo (without the animals) and the food court at the Mall of America. But we didn't stay long, since, according to the signs, we were being "watched obviously thro' the close circuit cameras!" We also ran into a major monkey neighborhood - white monkeys (large ones) were swinging across a two-way road on branches. I took a picture of a tree after one monkey jumped into it, and then I realized, with a combination of excitement and monkey-anxiety, that the tree was filled with large monkeys!

Other interesting sites in Mussoorie, one of the "hill stations," as the British referred to these places close to the Himalayas, included
boy reading newspaper intently while holding rifles for shooting at balloons. He wasn't getting much business, but he happily allowed me to take his picture.

And, of course, the best workout opportunity for miles, peddling the ferris wheel.








Yes, look closely folks, there's a man in the middle, peddling away. Isn't there some OSHA regulation that would apply? Oh, right, wrong country.

OK, so I was going to upload a few more pictures of funny signs, but this website has taken on a life of its own, and it is refusing to allow me to add more pictures, so I guess this is the cyber-equivalent of the comment "wordy." Or maybe "picture-y."

I miss you all, friends at home! And I hope that this blog will prepare you for any visits to India that you may plan - though I imagine that with each entry, fewer and fewer of you have such plans.