Catch up: back to Istanbul.

This morning I woke up in Manhattan. My friend Steve and his girlfriend Janet have been kind enough to take me in as I start to adjust to life in America. They've just moved into a new apartment but have found room to put down a full sized mattress which is the most comfortable place I've slept in quite some time.

The nice thing about travelling westward around the world from North America is that you get the interminable flight across the Pacific out of the way straight off. The flight across the Atlantic takes about half the time, which makes for a much more reasonable, thought still quite long, travel day. On the flight from Amsterdam through Dublin to JFK, I kept checking my watch to find the sun still shining ever later into the night that would have been falling were I still in Europe. The time difference is only six hours, but my body is still a little confused today.

Annie flew home from Berlin last Friday, May 4th and I spent another couple days in Berlin before heading to Amsterdam. There's so much writing I must catch up on, so Annie and my last night in Berlin and my time in Amsterdam will have to wait for a bit.

First, I'd like to return to Istanbul from a month ago...

Turkey is two and a half hours ahead of India, from which I'd so recently arrived on April 4th. My first two early mornings in Istanbul were spent walking deserted streets and watching the city awake and go to work. None of the tourists joints in Sultanahmet are open before eight, which means I had to walk to a more local section of the city before I found a cafe from which to watch the Turks head to work.

One of the remarkable things about Istanbul is that all the old, historic landmarks that still exist are themselves built over the ruins of even older structures. For instance, immediately adjacent to where the Blue Mosque stands today are the barest remnants of the enormous Hippodrome, the popular entertainment center of Roman times. All that remain are a few monuments and obelisks that stood in the center. The many sights that do still exist create quite an ambitious itinerary for the prospective tourist.

The central neighborhood of Sultanahmet has been the center of Byzantium, Constantanople, and Istanbul. In addition to the Hagia Sophia, the Basilica Cistern, and the Blue Mosque, it also contains the Topkapı Palace, the Archeology Museum, and a Mosaics Museum. The Hagia Sophia, "Church of the Holy Wisdom", was built under Emperor Justinian I in the sixth century AD. By the time it was converted into a museum in 1935, it had been burned twice, reconstructed, converted to a mosque, and restored from the toll of time. The scale of the church/mosque is immense--The main chamber dwarfs the visitors that stand at ground level, gazing up at the painted dome. The second level that surrounds the main chamber is reached by a long ramp circling upwards and contains the famous Christian mosaics.

The Basilica Cistern, also constructed in the sixth century to supply Constantinople with water, is another gigantic marvel. Marble columns hold the roof nine meters above the floor of the subterranean room that measures 143 by 65 meters. A wooden walkway has been built in a circuit around the cistern for the benefit of sightseers. Erie acoustics, dripping water, and dramatic lighting make it one of the more memorable sights.

The Sultanahmet Mosque, or Blue Mosque, so known because of the blue tiles that decorate the interior of the dome, sits a short distance from the Haghia Sophia. It's construction in the early 17th century drew criticism because its six minarets were seen as an arrogant rival to the mosque in Mecca. Topkapı Palace, perched above the Bosporous at the very eastern extent of Sultanahment, is a sprawling complex that was the center of the Ottoman government until the 19th century. It is a unique form of museum where the historic artefacts used by the Sultanate are found in displays spread around the palace.

Further west of Sultanahment, the Bazaar Quarter holds the Grand Bazaar, the Spice Bazaar, and the New Mosque all on a hill that slopes up slightly from the Golden Horn to the north. Bounding Istanbul even further to the west are what remain of the Theodosian Walls that stretch for 6670 meters, constructed to protect Constantinope from land attacks. Theodosius II had this two-tiered wall built from 412 to 422 AD when the city outgrew the previous wall built by Constantine The Great. Just inside these walls is the Chora Church or Kariye Museum which holds some of the best preserved frescoes and mosaics in Istanbul, created in the 14th century.

Turkish identity is a complicated issue--of which the current political uncertainty is a symptom. Ankara--the capital--and Istanbul seem more like isolated bits of the modern Turkish Republic's secular legacy, set amidst a more traditionally focused nation. Although, technically, I spent a week in Turkey, I think my experience was a very narrow view of the broader Turkish culture.

They only speak Croat here.

After four days in Hungary, it was hard to switch countries. We were knocked out of vacation-mode and into figuring-out-new-country-mode for a day. That was yesterday. Today has been much more enjoyable here at the coast of the Adriatic Sea. We got into Zagreb about 2:30pm on Monday and went from the train station into downtown - the town sprawled out before us as soon as we came out of the station. My travel book said the tourist officies are helpful in Croatia for booking rooms, getting maps, etc. So, we headed for the nearest office. It was all young people working there (as this is a country where the only people who know English are those under 30). The girl was helpful and called in our reservation to a local hostel. She mentioned the price, nonspecifically, and told us it was not far away, circling the street on the map. As we walked I got worked up into a huff about how the price she said might be per person and that her version of "not far" was quite innacurate. Then I made a conspiracy theory about the tourist office getting a kickback for booking the room and so they jacked up the price without showing where the slipped the extra fee in. And, she couldn't say it was actually 16 blocks away because we would have wanted a closer place and she would not have gotten the extra buck! And, once we got there, the price was for both of us, it was clean and private, and I realized I was a little cranky.

Then we walked to the bus station to book our tickets for coming to the coast to see Zadar. We interacted with a Croat who was not so pleased with my English, but between the three of us, we got the tickets purchased. The bus stations have been nice, in a sort of mall-ish kind of way. There are vendors and stores and places for espresso. We have had lots of espresso and I never thought I would prefer it as a way to drink coffee. I think I will have to start saving for an espresso machine when I get home!

My other highlights have been walking around Old Town Zadar, right on the coast of the Adriatic; buying handmade slipper-socks (we decided to call them slocks) from a Croatian lady; and staying with a really nice old couple, who don't speak English, but have a couple rooms for rent (which the local non-conspiratal tourist office found for us). I have also been noticing a lovely smell that everyone has on and this morning I discovered it is the bar soap in the lady's bathroom. Actually, our rented bathroom (we're not living with the old couple - just staying in the room next door). So, today I stopped in the supermarket and bought the soap - it's Palmolive bar soap - who knew?! I also found a kind of wine I like here (in Hungary and here) and it is like $2 a glass. We ride a bus back to Zagreb tonight and then fly to Berlin tomorrow. The bus ride was also really fascinating - to see the countryside of Croatia and the houses (much of the housing, buildings, etc) were destroyed in the Balkan War which only ended in 1995.
See you soon!
-Annie


It's been a whirlwind tour of Eastern Europe: a morning in Berlin, one night in Prague, two nights in Budapest, two nights on Lake Balaton, one night in Zagreb, and one night in Zadar. So much travelling does get tiring.

Zagreb, where our train from Hungary arrived, is the capital of Croatia. All of downtown is within an easily walkable cluster, perhaps ten blocks in each direction from the center. We spent Monday evening exploring the streets in the old town, finding nice cafes and restaurants. The streets were filled with young people out socializing. Zagreb has a pleasant feel somewhat in between Prague's old worldliness and the disorganization of Budapest.

We walked to the bus station in Zagreb as the sun was rising on Tuesday morning for our three and a half hour ride to Zadar. Rolling hills covered in forest stretched on both sides of the smooth, new highway all the way to the coast.

Zadar itself is a modern town on the northern end of the Dalmation coast, stretching inland from a small peninsula that holds Old Town. Half the buildings in Old Town are quite new, but the other half are hundreds of years old. Beneath these buildings, sometimes exposed, are the walls and foundations of a Roman city. The narrow streets hold an unbelievable number of cafes and bars with trendy shops and some restaurants in between.

A leisurely walk around the intermitent wall that surrounds the Old Town peninsula takes perhaps half an hour. Last night after watching the sun set over the islands that lay across the Zadar Straight to the west, Annie and I headed across one of the pedestrian bridges into the newer neighborhoods of Zadar. They are suburban and quiet outside of the odd casino or sports betting hall. When we returned to old town we found several of the most trendy night spots overflowing with loud youngsters but most bars completely empty all night.

This morning we got up early to take pictures in the morning light. After checking out of our private room (awkwardly) in a mixture of English, German, and hand gestures, none of which our hostess seemed to understand, we've spent the day exploring more of the old sights and people watching. Now we've got another hour and a half before our trip back to Zagreb for the night.
-Aaron

Feels like vacation (Lake Balaton)

We stayed at this Hungarian guy's place our second night in Hungary and his place was really great - in the city, had great artwork all over the apartment, not many other people. In fact, the night before we left for Lake Balaton, we brought home supplies from the local grocery store (which has become a fun daily thing), including wine, sour gummy worms, big bottles of water, and anything else that looks interesting. We got back to his apartment at like 10pm and I asked if he'd like to have a glass of wine with us. He (we think his name was John, with a Hungarian accent) said he was going out soon, but would join us quickly. That turned into a couple hours, at which point we wrote our last blog. When we rented the room, he said he would make us breakfast in the morning. Our train for Lake Balaton was leaving at noon or 1 the next day, so we thought there would be plenty of time. Apparently, when he finally did leave to go out to the clubs with friends, it was almost 1am, and that means, all bets are off for breakfast. Needless to say, we left John's place without seeing him again. And we were off to the countryside to see this huge Lake that emperors and royalty use to vacation at. The train ride was a couple of hours (our shortest so far) and we started seeing this amazing lake and the small towns on both sides about an hour into our ride. We got off at Zamardi, a small seaside town, and had a great conversation with this Hungarian grandpa named Luis, who said I looked Hungarian. He asked about our trip and told us he was meeting up with a friend from England. He no longer likes Budapest - too crowded and busy. We walked (for---ever, as seems to be the norm these days) and found the cottage I had seen on a website. Against all Aaron's skepticism of these things working out, it was fantastic! The apartments are above the family's home and the woman who answered the door was holding her six-week old baby (so cute) and was super hospitable. After dropping our loads, of sorts, we went to see the town. It might be what the Cape feels like (Val, you would love it). The next day we rented bikes from our host family and rode to the next town over, which is bigger and has many tourist attractions. The funniest part was taking this silly boat ride (which we thought would go around the Lake to show us this cool island and the towns on the other side) which lasted an hour and literally went out for 30 min and came back in a straight line. It did show that the lake is huge, in that, we did not come close to the island or the other side. I rode my bike to the grocery store and bought makings for dinner and made gnocci, garlic toast, and cheese sauce all from packages with 5 languages but not a word of English. I was proud of myself ... and it turned out just like the restaurants' ... sort of. We ate on our balcony and watched an American DVD (The Holiday) - I was so excited. I really love hungary and want to spend 10 days just touring around the country (maybe with my whole family) next time. That is all from me for Hungary - long live the Hungarians!!
PS - I found out my last name, Rigo, is the word for a certain kind of bird!
-Annie


Lake Balaton is a huge lake with towns edge to edge encircling it. It seems like a popular vacation spot for both Hungarians and Germans, although the tourist season is just beginning. The walk from the train station to our "Zimmer frei" in Zamardi was a bit of a hike. The streets were narrow and very quiet.

Our room was amazing--absolutely the best accommodations and hospitality I've yet had. During our walk we passed many houses offering rooms or apartments for rent, but ours was the most picturesque. The small kitchen and balcony overlooking the front yard and street were perfect. When we rang at the gate, the exceedingly pleasant Andrea, led us around to the back of the house and up a spiral staircase to our apartment on the second floor. We met her husband, Zoltan, the next evening. Their two children and friendly Golden Retriever made quite the impression.

Not a lot goes on in Zamardi--especially on a holiday weekend. May Day is pretty big in this part of the world. We're not sure whether the Lake was more crowded or less because of the holiday. We saw a lot of families biking and walking around. Also, a lot of people seem to do yardwork in Speedos ... especially old and middle-aged men.

Siofok, the next town eight kilometers to the east is a little bigger. Annie and I biked to the docks in Siofok and hung out most of the day, eventually taking the ridiculous boat ride that she already mentioned. We had nixed our initial intent to take the ferry over to the abbey on the peninsula across the lake because we would have spent twice as much time in transit as time exploring. In retrospect we both decided that would have been better. In any case, it was cool to get out on the water.

Sailing seems quite popular. A stiff breeze kicked up under thickening clouds in the later afternoon and while Annie raided the grocery store, I sat and watched sailboats tack in and out of port.

There are a variety of shops around the docks in Siofok: a couple vendors selling popcorn, ice cream, and small snacks and maybe a dozen restaurants that all seem to have similar menus. A long jetty of stones covered by pavement protects the harbor--All day families and couples strolled out past the fishermen (and fisherwomen). I wished that we could have a chance to either fish or sail--the activities of enforced leisure. I think we did alright enforcing our own leisure.

After our ride back to Zamardi, Annie, taking advantage of our kitchen and dining ware, made the most excellent dinner--gnocci with cheese and peas.

It turns out that the trains to Zagreb in Croatia leave from Siofok and do not stop in Zamardi, which turned into quite a dilemna when we discovered that there is no public transportation to speak of between the two towns. Luckily, Zoltan offered to drive us to the train station yesterday morning. He brought his father and his ineffably cute two-year-old daughter, Csenge (Chan-gha), along so that they could all hang out in the park by the train station. After dropping us off, he appeared by our side in the ticket line, just in case the agent didn't speak English. After allowing a woman with a small request to go first, he set our ticket process in motion and was off again. And what a process it was. The agent must have taken five minutes to issue our tickets, getting out every tome of reference, making duplicates and triplicates of each form in carbon copy, and stamping each shred of paperwork with a unique insignia. I pitied each and every person behind us in line--and was glad I was not them (we would have missed our train).

And then we were off on a moderately modern train sans cafeteria for the four and a half hour trip to Zagreb (pronounced ZAH-greb, as we've discovered). More on Croatia soon ...
-Aaron

Palacsintas in Budapest

Today has been a great day of exploring without being travel-weary and jet-lagged (for me). Currently, we are sitting in a man's apartment drinking wine with him and a Polish man and a girl who just came over. Luckily we (and aforementioned Polish man) are the only ones staying in his hostel tonight so it feels more like a bunch of friends. We stopped at an ABC store which sells groceries on the way home from dinner and taking pictures and stocked up on sour-gummy worms, water, beer, wine, and snickers all for $6. My favorite part of today was the Grand Central Market, just off the Danube River, where about 300 merchants set up shop and sell everything from weird meats to nut rolls (like Dad makes) and lots of cool Hungarian stuff. I stocked up on presents and realized how easy it is to spend lots of Forint (Hungarian money). It was great fun to talk to the local vendors, although one lady accused me of breaking a box because I didn't use the little key hidden inside of the bottom of the box - needless to say, I did not do business there. Then, we rode the metro for the 12th time in 2 days and finally got busted by an officer of the subway for a ticket violation ("Zere ees a broblem vit yur ticket.") We got a huge fine of 5000 forint, which is about 30 dollars, but it was payable immediately, and included a receipt in case we wanted to write it off as a business expense - the officer seemed pleased with his work! Sometimes, after talking to locals, I turn to Aaron and talk to him slowly as if I want him to understand the English language. Good times! We are thinking of acting out our subway incident by way of photos so you may see that later (missing tooth and all). I swear I saw all my long-lost relatives today - I am so Hungarian! I could definitely live here for a while. And now, Aaron for some actual details ... but first, I gotta give a shout-out to my sister - what's up lil' sis'!
-Annie

Budapest is actually the union of two old Hungarian towns across the Danube from each other: Buda on the west bank and Pest on the east. The Danube is a wide river by Colorado standards. Five bridges join the twenty-something districts of Pest and Buda.

Yesterday Annie and I arrived in Budapest at eight o'clock in the morning after a nine hour ride on the oldest train still in service. The toilets were reminiscent of my experiences in India. The paragraph informing passengers not to use the lavatory while the train was in a station (for the consideration of those on the platforms) was written in Czech, Russian, Italian, and Spanish but not English. The passenger compartments were designed to hold eight people, but luckily were only booked for four. Another four companions in our compartment would have been intimate.

After fending off several touts, we headed downtown in search of pleasant-sounding accommodations Annie found on the internet. A two-mile walk later, we had still not found the place and decided to try accommodations on one of the fliers that had been pressed into our hands at the train station: Helena's House in eastern Pest. As I pause to search for a suitable description of Helena's House Annie and I look at each other and laugh. It was substandard. Eight mattresses sat on the floor in a small family apartment--two in one room and six in the other. During our short tour around eleven o'clock in the morning, six men still slept soundly in the room with six beds. The "room" that held the remaining beds was more of a hallway. After a very short conference ("It makes me feel like crying.") on the landing outside we were quickly back in the street searching again. (A few tears at this point)

We did eventually find a nice hotel not too far away with a quiet, private, pricey double room. As Annie and I were both hungry and exhausted, we stepped out to the corner market, bought fixin's for lunch, and after a great meal got the most from our beautiful accommodations by sleeping for four hours in the middle of the afternoon.

Refreshed, we set out for our first look at the Danube, for although our misadventures earlier in the day had taken us within a few blocks of the river, we had yet to actually see it. We took the Metro to Parliament, walked along the cobbled riverfront, and crossed to Buda on the Chain Bridge at dusk. Castle Hill in Buda is a long ridge rising steeply above the river, covered with old, beautiful buildings interspersed with large swathes of trees. There were also a lot of large swarms of bugs, like, maybe the largest swarm I've ever seen.

From the foot of Castle Hill we walked north and found a nice patio on which to eat dinner. Annie had traditional Hungarian stuffed peppers which her parents make at home. After dinner we continued north and found a local creperie that Annie recognized because of it's Hungarian name Palacsintas, another homemade favorite at the Rigo residence. We stopped to share a couple palacsintas, filled with nutella and banana.

This morning after supplementing our nap with an actual eight hours of sleep, we breakfasted at our hotel and then checked out in search of more "authentic" quarters. It was again a non-trivial search, but it turned out well (see Annie's portion of the entry).

In the afternoon, we bought our train tickets headed east to the shore of Lake Balaton for tomorrow and then stopped by the National Museum to see the exhibit on the history of Hungary. It was pretty amazing. I would have liked a more comprehensive overview of who the Magyars were before Saint Stephen I, and perhaps a few more dots connected during the subsequent centuries, but on the whole it was impressive. Annie felt very Hungarian again. I found the struggle between the Hungarians and the Ottomans fascinating having just recently seen the seat of Ottoman power in Istanbul. Several of the period costumes were fantastic--we found some amazing dresses and I might be an Ottoman Turk for Halloween next year.

We've got a few more short hours in Budapest before our train tomorrow. We're both looking forward to a slower life in the countryside (the lake, thermal baths, bikes, and wineries).
-Aaron

Annie! in Prague

My first 24 hrs in Europe has been quite the adventure. A few points I'd like to touch on: hostels, walking, and money. My first experience in a hostel turned out to be like a bad camp experience. The beds were cute, like a little man whittled them out of wood himself. We were in an 8 bed room and we went to bed before anyone else was in there. The hostel gives you 5 keys, none of them labeled, so all night, every time someone came in the room, you heard them try all 5 keys because, of course, it's always the last key! Then, there was the snorer, the sleeptalker, and me, the one who woke up at 3am and felt wide-awake. I thought about how to convert the local currency, where my lost face wash was in my bag, and how I hoped I would be able to make it through the whole next day. In the morning (after I finally fell back asleep), I had the pleasure of finding my glasses just in time to see naked guy get up, put on his bikini underwear and go into the bathroom for a shower. It was the same place I wanted to go to put in my contacts, etc, but I waited the extra time, just in case ! Today has been lots of fun - Aaron is good about feeding me beers, water, candy, and finding the WC when needed. We have an 11pm train to Budapest tonight and it will be my 3rd night to sleep in an abnormal place. It's such an adventure though. As far as walking and money, the streets are old school stone, which is great, but really uneven and hard to take in flip flops. And, the money is crowns and it's all I can do to keep it in my head that 100 crowns equals 5 dollars. We're about to find dinner and go buy some Praha tshirts and other goods!
See you in Budapest!!!!
-Annie

Well, so much for finishing some entries about Istanbul and Spain before arriving in Eastern Europe. I guess I'll have to catch up later.

Annie arrived in Berin at five after eight on Tuesday morning. I'm sure my hostel bunkmates enjoyed the six o'clock alarm. Annie and I had a train reservation to Prague at a quarter to one, which gave us a few hours to kill. We spent them at the train station because lugging our bags around Berlin seemed tiresome.

Our train was nice. Our second class seats were in a six seat compartment, which we had to ourselves. After the green and yellow farmlands of Germany, we had our passports stamped by some serious officials and found ourselves in a beautiful, narrow river valley with high, blocky cliffs on the east side, standing over cute clusters of vacation homes. We arrived in Prage just after five o'clock in the evening to be accosted by several people speaking poor English trying to get us to their hostels. After the third or fourth encounter, we made a fast getaway into a convenience shop to buy water.

The Metro system in Prague does not seem as comprehensive as those in Berlin or Madrid, but it seems to take us where we want to go. Three stops from the northern train station, we got off in the old town section of Prague to search for accommodations. We found a hostel without too much difficulty and, after settling in, set out to explore the city before dinner.

The old town section of Prague is amazing. Every block seems to hold some architectural marvel. We've heard that Prague has retained so much of it's old charm because none of the last century's wars have ever had much reason to destroy it. The sun slowly set during our exploration, throwing a slanting light on colorful buildings. We crossed the Vitava River on the Charles Bridge, which has stone statues on each side set about fifty feet apart. The view east from the bridge into the old town is picturesqe. We had a flavorful dinner on the west bank of the Vitava.

Today, after a large breakfast at our hostel, we stopped by the central train station in Prague to buy our tickets to Budapest. It is a short walk from the train station to the new town section of Prague where a wide, boulevard called Wenceslas runs roughly north from the imposing National Museum. In the afternoon, we stopped in a few clothing stores, trying to get a feel for the local flair and then went to the _very_ intense Franz Kafka Museum. Since Kafka wrote in German, I always thought that was his nationality, but he was Bohemian, born and raised in Prague.

At four o'clock, we found our way to the old square, which is a large, heavily touristed, cobbled square surrounded by incredible buildings. We sat for a taste of the Czech brewed Pilsner Urquell and watched the various nationalities flow by. The internet rates here border on the extortionary, so it's probably time to close. Ciao.
-Aaron

60% of the Oakley Family in Spain!

So, it's been a while since I've written (as those of you who try to read often might have noticed). I left Istanbul on Wednesday, April 11th, on a flight to Madrid via Dusseldorf. My layover became hectic when I happened to notice my bag, which was supposedly checked through to Spain, emerge on a carousel in Dusseldorf. I spent my short time in Germany sprinting around the airport trying to recheck my bag on the flight for which I was already late. I was shocked when both I and my bag made it to Madrid that afternoon.

The first thing I noticed upon stepping into the streets in Madrid after the long but efficient Metro ride into town was that I could read. After eleven weeks in six countries whose languages I've never spoken, I was again literate. This was a complicated but comforting emotion that is hard to describe. Not to say that my Spanish has survived the last ten years of disuse intact, but it's a far mite better than my Hindi.

I still have some comments that I'd like to write about Istanbul before I go on to Spain, but before I got backwards ... My parents arrived in Madrid for a short vacation last Sunday. I met them at the airport after their twenty-four hour journey and we got to explore a bit of the city before heading south on Monday.

There are many great things about travelling with people who are important to you. One of my favorites is the common memories that you then share. In ten years, I won't be able to turn to someone and say, "Remember that time in Hanoi when I thought I had malaria?" I'll probably not have time to write about all the fantastic places my parents and I saw while we drove around the last Moorish foothold in Europe, but the images and experiences have been recorded in a much more dynamic medium. Even in the age of the internet, there’s something special about an oral tradition.

I will still write about Spain, but I'm feeling a bit behind. Tomorrow, it's off to Berlin to meet my friend Annie!

Half Asian, Wholly European

A colony named Byzantion was founded on the land of present-day Istanbul in 667 BC by an Athenian named Byzas. Placed between Thrace and the Balkans to the west and Anatolia to the east, the region's history seems defined by almost incessant conflict. By the time Alexander the Great took Byzantion in 334 BC, it had already lived under three different foreign rulers: Lydian, Persian, and Athenian.

Byzantium came under Roman control in 64 BC and served as an important administrative center for the eastern parts of the empire until Constantine the Great moved his capital there from Rome in 330 AD. The city, renamed New Rome, was more commonly called Constantinople. Constantine's successor divided the empire between his two sons in 395 AD and when the western half fell to the Europeans in 476 AD, Constantinople became the sole center of Roman power.

Aside from the fifty-eight year period when the Latins of the Fourth Crusade controlled it, Constantinople remained free, albeit in decline until 1453. The Ottomans had been chipping away at Byzantium possessions to the east since Osman I declared their independence in 1301. On May 29th, 1453 Sultan Mehmet II finally took Constantinople and begin rebuilding what he had just took so much time to destroy. Instead of starting from scratch, many of the old Byzantine churches were converted to mosques and still exist in roughly their original proportions today.

The Ottomans controlled Constantinople with widely varying levels of competence until the Sultanate was abolished in 1922 with the declaration of the secular Turkish republic, led by Mustafa Kemal Pasa, also known as Ataturk (Father of the Turks). The issue of a secular republic ruling a Muslim majority is a large issue for modern-day Turkey. The first few pages of the Turkish Daily News normally contain at least two stories about government conduct in relation to religious beliefs.

Istanbul feels like a European city, not only because of all the European tourists, but because the buildings are well maintained, the streets are clean, and the people have a sophisticated fashion sense. The cleanliness was a pleasant shock after ten weeks in Asia.

Istanbul stradles the south end of the Bosporus, the waterway that connects the Black Sea to the Sea of Marmara. Central Istanbul, which holds the highest concentration of historical sights, sits on the western side.

I stayed in Sultanahmet, a district built over and around some of the oldest pieces of Byzantine and Ottoman architecture. After a bit of a fiasco where I found that the hotel I had chosen no longer existed, I checked in to a small, family run hostel literally in the shadow of the Haghia Sofia, or Church of Holy Wisdom. The Blue Mosque was a mere two hundred yards further south, and the Topkapi Palace, overlooking the Bosporus, just a little further to the east. The Bazar Quarter is immediately west of Sultanahmet and an inlet called the Golden Horn separates this section of Istanbul from the busy Beyoglu district to the north.

Twenty-two hours in Mumbai

The train from Jaipur to Mumbai takes eighteen hours. The outskirts of Mumbai stretch for miles out from the city center--the train seemed to pass through dense developments for over an hour before we arrived. I was surprised when we pulled in almost on time at eight-thirty in the morning. My flight departure was scheduled for 5:55 AM the next day, which gave me very little time to look around. I took a taxi from the train station to the Colaba neighborhood in the southern part of Delhi and found a coffee shop for a much needed espresso.

Colaba is a bustling center of activity both tourist and commercial. It reminded me a bit of Saigon with its fast paced capitalism. However, whereas the sense of commerce seems quite new in Saigon, in Mumbai it feels modern but old and well-ingrained.

After trying to update my blog at a frustrating connection, I went on a walking tour of some of the sights. My first stop was the Gate of India, which is a huge arch right next to the water, commemorating a visit to Bombay by King George and Queen Mary in 1914.

Colaba is filled with old, beautiful buildings. From the Gate of India, I walked north past the Eliyahal Synagogue and the David Sassoon Library to Flora Fountain, which is an intricate construction in the middle of a large boulevard. West of Flora Fountain is a large grassy park called Oval Maidan surrounded by more impressive buildings. The State Public Works Department, the High Court, and the University of Mumbai all stand one after another up the east side of the park.

Mumbai was hot and the humid air prevented any sweat from evaporating. My shirt was constantly soaked. I stopped to watch one of the several armature cricket games in Oval Maidan for quite some time. The players were grown men, and the game seemed well organized, with referees and a scoreboard. As I watched, I realized how athletic the sport must be at the professional level, which is not always evident on television. A traveler I met here said, "I don't watch sports where they break for tea and crumpets", which is a sentiment I used to share. However, my respect has grown with my understanding.

After my afternoon walk, I headed to the recommended Leopold Cafe, a busy restaurant in Colaba with an incredibly diverse clientele. They seemed evenly split between Indians and foreigners. I met a Kenyan airline stewardess on holiday in Mumbai for three days and a young Irish man named Kevin who is four months into a six month stay. Kevin and I stayed until closing time when he returned to his hotel and I took a cab to the airport. I caught just short of an hour's rest before check-in for my flight began.

Jaipur, Rajasthan

A little more than three hundred kilometers from Delhi to the southwest, Jaipur is the primary tourist destination in the Indian state of Rajasthan. Rajasthan is much drier than the areas surrounding Delhi, and although I didn't see it, I've heard that you can take camel treks through the desert.

Jaipur sprawls to the south and west of a plateau that would be called a mesa, were it located in the American Southwest. On top of the plateau sits an impressive fortification called Nahargarh, or Tiger Fort, constructed, like most of the attractions, in the 18th century. The modern sections of central Jaipur have grown around the older buildings leaving a interesting mix of old and newer (not new) architecture. In that heterogeneous jumble are the City Palace, Hawa Mahal, a royal residence, and Jantar Mantar, an observatory.

I arrived in Jaipur to the usual bustle around the train station, encircled and besieged by half a dozen rickshaw drivers offering fares at a discount. Always hurried and always pushy, I've found that the best way to deal with them is to just stand still, not following anyone, not moving, for at least a couple minutes. The act of doing nothing seems like a simple way to assert that you're not pliable prey.

After the short wait, I had a driver take me to a hotel I'd selected in a quieter part of town, away from the dusty center. When I took my room I thought it was quite nice, but it turned into the worst of anywhere I've stayed. The mosquito net was completely ineffective and mosquitoes entered the room at will. I even tried sleeping in repellent, but the heat caused me to sweat it all off. I think I was bitten more in two nights than the entire rest of my trip combined.

On Sunday I visited the City Palace, the observatory Jantar Mantar, and the Amber Fort, with Mario, a Mexican that I met at the hotel. I had expected the city palace in Jaipur to somehow resemble the palaces in Old Delhi and Agra, but it is completely different The palace is a collection of square plazas enclosed by a network of a building. The facades are painted in a striking contrast of colors: blue balconies on yellow buildings, bright white trim on reddish brown walls, and multicolored works surrounding doorways.

Jantar Mantar is just across a narrow dusty street from the City Palace and is a collection of structures built to aid astronomers in tracking celestial bodies. A tall tower dominates the courtyard. On each side of the tower, a circular marble strip rises from the base to form a semi-circle with markings for degrees to accurately locate stars and planets. There are several similar smaller, and therefore less accurate, structures, one for each sign of the zodiac plus one or two more. The stairways that lead to the top of some of the structures have no railings and are somewhat perilous.

Amber Fort is a palace and fort extending along a high ridge about eleven kilometers outside of Jaipur. Built at the end of the 16th century, it was the center of Rajput power until Maharaja Jai Singh II moved administration to Jaipur in the 18th century. There are elephant rides to the ridge top, but Mario and I elected to climb the cobbled pathway. The fort walls command an impressive view of the surrounding plains and Jaipur itself. In addition to a Hindu temple, and museums on the region's history, the fort also contains a cannon foundry complete with a mule driven drill for boring precision holes in the solid, cast barrels.

Monday morning, Mario and I visited Hawa Mahal, which is a tall, intricately carved facade hiding a complex of stairways and balconies overlooking a courtyard. The complicated facade is riddled with small windows for observing the busy street below.

I had my train reservation to depart for Mumbai on Monday afternoon, but Mario had not yet gotten his ticket. We spent a significant portion of the day both before and after the Hawa Mahal, walking the train station, from one ticket window to another, directed by some authoritarian decentralized bureaucracy neither one of us understood. My Spanish seemed marginally better than Mario's English and so I acted as translator. As I boarded my train in the afternoon, Mario had some kind of receipt that would allow him to ask the conductor of his train for a seat when it arrived. It turns out that advance reservations are the way to go.

Again in Delhi

In India, I've come to prefer rail travel to buses, but as there are no tracks to McLeod Ganj, I booked an overnight tourist bus back to Delhi. The trip was supposed to take twelve hours, but due to two flat tires, one while the bus sat parked during dinner and the other while we were driving through a town the next morning, we arrived eight hours late. On the bus ride, I met Aruna, an American who came to India to study yoga. After the interminable bus ride, we agreed to meet up for dinner after checking into our hotels.

In Delhi for the third time, I found an entirely different experience. Aruna and I explored further parts of the city that neither of us had yet seen. On Wednesday, we took a rickshaw to a neighborhood in west Delhi called Patel Nagar to see a film called the Namesake, about an Indian family that has emigrated to the United States and the issues that their firstborn son has fitting his identity into both his traditional family and community and American culture. The film is primarily in English and was quite good. Seeing it here in India gave me a much greater appreciation for the cultural differences. The movie is filled with subtle (and not so subtle) cultural juxtapositions, not all of which I would have understood before I came to India.

On Thursday evening, I accompanied Aruna to a devotional service by Sri Mata Amritanandamayi, who is known as Amma, the hugging saint. I'm not sure "service" is the right word, but I don't know one more appropriate. Amma has followers from all parts of the world--the devotees in attendance were mostly Indian, but I saw quite a few Westerners as well. The type of yoga that Amma practices sees song and music as the path to devotion. After a ritual where most of the attendees sat on the floor with a small candle on a leaf in front of them, the event organizers set up chairs and everyone sat and listened to Amma and her companions on a stage sing and play. Aruna found a seat close to the stage and I listened to the mesmerizing music for about an hour before hunger got the better of me and I sent in search of a restaurant.

In addition to those outstanding excursions, we also looked through quite a few shops, saw India Gate and explored the beautiful park that runs east from India Gate to the Parliament building. One of our grand discoveries was the Metro. After seeing the Namesake, Aruna and I decided to try returning to central Delhi by Metro if we could figure out how. As it turns out, the Delhi Metro is not only straightforward, but also cheap, clean, fast, and convenient.

A quick note from Mumbai

I've just arrived in Mumbai this morning after an eighteen hour train ride. Since leaving McLeod Ganj, I've spent a few days back in Delhi and then two days in Jaipur, which is in the Indian state Rajasthan. I had not intended to spend so much time in Delhi, but some details for law school needed sorting out at a reliable internet connection.

I'll have to write more about that and my experience in Jaipur another time. I only have this afternoon to explore Mumbai and I've already spent two hours trying to process my pictures on this frustratingly slow computer.

Hopefully more from Istanbul tomorrow!

A Tibetan Community (McLeod Ganj)

McLeod Ganj is a small town nine kilometers up a steep hill from Dharamsala. Founded as a British garrison in the mid-19th century, it remained a fairly unremarkable town, albeit in the midst of some fantastic scenery, until the Dalai Lama claimed asylum in India and settled here in 1959. I've read that there are some four thousand Tibetan refugees living here, but a local that I met at breakfast the other day thought it was more like ten or fifteen thousand. Colorful Tibetan flags fly from almost every rooftop, balcony, and terrace.

I arrived in Dharamsala after dark on Tuesday during a rainstorm. I planed to wait for a shuttle to McLeod Ganj but one of my fellow passengers on the bus, the only one to get off at the same spot, asked whether I wanted to share a taxi. He was a Tibetan just returning from a trip to Tibet. When we arrived in McLeod Ganj, he showed me to the guesthouse I had chosen, and when it was full, as he suspected, he took me to the Green Hotel, where he lives. From the cover of the awning outside my door, I watched lightening periodically illuminate a snow covered ridge across the valley under the low clouds.

The central part of McLeod Ganj is a scruffy open confluence of six narrow streets, all in ill-repair. Two of the streets lead downhill to Dharamsala, past the Tsugladkhang Complex, residence of the Dalai Lama and seat of the Tibetan Government in Exile. The other four streets lead up further into the valley that overlooks the plain to the south. There are quite a few hotels, guesthouses, souvenir shops, restaurants, travel agencies, and internet cafes, but the people are less aggressive than elsewhere in India. Aside from the occasional car honking to clear a way through the narrow streets, the town is very quiet.

On Thursday, I visited the temples and museum at the Tsuglagkhang Complex. The statues and paintings in the temples were amazingly involved and beautifully created. Offerings were stacked in front of each shrine: nuts, crackers, fruit, Chips Ahoy. The Tibetan Museum is a small, two-story section of the compound documenting the Chinese occupation of Tibet. Although I have read the Dalai Lama's account of this time in his autobiography, the museum illustrated the harsher aspects of the Chinese invasion better than any book.

In addition to the Tsuglagkhang Complex, there are several other temples and monasteries around McLeod Ganj. My favorite activity, though, has been exploring the surrounding towns and trails.

Less than two kilometers to the east of McLeod Ganj is an even smaller town called Bhagsu. Above the town, a long stream pours through a steep cut in the ridge feeding a waterfall. Several cafes are perched above and below the waterfall serving chai and all kinds of snacks. Across the pools at the top of the waterfall, a trail leads up the opposite hillside to a collection of stone huts and a shrine.

A brisk fifteen minute walk to the north is another pleasant village called Dharamkot, where there are also a few guesthouses and restaurants, but no streets. The valley is covered with terraced farmland and livestock roam the meadows above.

On Friday, I hiked a long circuit starting through Dharamkot, ascending the ridge past a place called Triund, which is a cafe and shrine at 9500 feet. Somewhere at a fork in the trail, I lost my way and found myself thrashing through sharp bushes on steep slopes and scrambling up and down through stands of rhododendron trees. I lost sight of Triund but continued through meadows on the ridges and finally through a pasture, approaching the cafe from the wrong direction. From Triund, the correct trail was obvious, stretched out like a sidewalk back down the valley. There were four men there: the cafe proprietor and single inhabitant and a group of two hikers and their guide. After an orange juice and a Snickers bar, I bought a third liter of water and a hard, sugarcane walking stick. The cafe owner said that there was snow on the ridge, but my hiking boots should be fine.

Past Triund, the trail is easy to follow despite increasing amounts of snow. After a few kilometers, the path crosses an avalanche chute, recently discharged, before ascending the ridge through well-trod switchbacks. The nearer I came to the summit, the more energy I found until by the time I crested the ridge, I felt I could walk forever up, despite being at 11,000 feet. As I came over the rolling, wide ridge top and walked to the shepherds' basecamp at Laka Got, the next ridge and its beautiful snow-covered peaks came slowly into view. There were about fifteen people at Laka Got, sitting outside a shelter cafe drinking chai. I stayed for a brief chat with a couple of exhausted German girls and a quick chai.

After Laka Got, I headed east along the ridge through large, granite boulders protruding from the snow. A little over a mile along the ridge, the snow thinned and the ground dips to a shoulder where I came upon a group of stone shelters by a couple of small ponds in a green pasture. After the shelters the trail becomes indistinct as the way steepens but the next landmark was clear and I quickly reached another cluster of huts with a pagoda, halfway down to the waterfall at Bhagsu. The rest of the trail down to the waterfall is well maintained and winds through a slope of bushes and more blooming rhododendron. I was soon at the waterfall, where I hopped the stones across and walked the short road back to McLeod Ganj. My legs were tired, but mentally I felt refreshed.

Shimla, Hamachal Pradesh

Shimla is the capital of the state of Hamachal, about ten hours north of Delhi, by train. The first train from Delhi arrives in Kalka, at the edge of the plain, where the passengers continuing to Shimla change to a narrow gauge rail that winds up through countless switchbacks for five hours. The gradually ascending path is a creative marvel: switching from one side of the ridge system to the other, plunging into total the darkness of long tunnels.

Shimla itself is a sprawling cluster of multistory homes that stretch up over several aspects of a complicated ridge structure. Level roads and paths are few and far between. Almost any walk leads either up or down at agressive inclines, made even more fierce by the alititude, which is over 7000 feet. The social center of Shimla is the pedestrian mall, an east-west street running along the ridge. In the afternoons it is quite crowded with locals, vacationers from other parts of India, and a handful of Westerners. Just above the pedestrian mall, at the shoulder of the ridge is a large plaza called Scandal Point that overlooks the valleys to the north and south. Long ridges of snowy mountains are visible to the north. A temple dedicated to Haruman, the monkey god, sits at the top of the ridge, a long, steep walk above the plaza.

When I arrived in Shimla, it was frigid. I walked immediately to the bathroom of the train station to put three more layers under my jacket. The overcast sky intermittently dropped rain and sleet. I found what I thought was a taxi driver and asked him to take me to the accommodation I had picked out, which was the YMCA. He was, in fact, a tout/guide who then flagged down a taxi and insisted on taking me to another hotel first. The other hotel was quite bad and expensive, so after a long discussion, I he led me to my original choice. He followed me around as I looked at the room and would not accept the fact that I chose to stay there, until I paid him about a dollar for leading me around.

After I settled in, I stepped out to walk around town to find the guide waiting for me at the gate. He followed me around for about thirty minutes telling me what I was going to do the next four days, despite my increasingly creative attempts to tell him no. Finally, I told him I was going to email for a long time and walked into an internet cafe. I think he finally took the hint, for it was another three days before he caught up with me again.

On the train I met a Dutch man named Henk who is staying in Shimla to take classes at a technical training institute called Koenig Solutions. The school caters to European and American information technology professionals and offers all kinds of the latest certifications much cheaper than they can be had in the West. I caught up with Henk by chance at dinner and we agreed to meet for breakfast the next day. His classes did not start until March 21st, so he had a few days to sightsee.

On Thursday, the sun rose bright and clear under perfectly blue skies and the weather was beautiful for the rest of my stay in Shimla. Henk and I always sought out restaurants with rooftops or balconies to bask over lunch or a beer.

Henk and I planned a day trip around the surrounding towns and hoped to visit a place called Tattapani where we we read there are hotsprings. Unfortunately, we could find no car to rent and hiring a taxi for the day to Tattapani was quite expensive. Instead, we took a shorter tour around the valley. We visited the Himachal State Museum, the Indian Institute for Advanced Studies, the University at Summer Hill, a mountain-top temple named Tara Devi, and another temple in the vally below Shimla called Sankat Mochan.

The state museum had some nice artifacts, but was not much in comparison to the National Museum in Delhi. There were some nice displays of native clothing, weapons, stamps, comtemporary paintings, and some of Ghandi's correspondence.

The Indian Institue of Advanced Learning is a school for PhD studies in Humanities and Social Sciences. The building was built by the British, completed in 1888, as the center for administering all of India from March to October when the plains are too uncomfortable. Shortly after independence from the British ni 1947, the building was given to the Ministry of Education and converted to its current role. The tour was short but informational. Much of the original furniture and woodwork remain.

The University at Summer Hill is a bit run down. Henk and I stopped for some tea and walked around a bit. While we were enjoying our tea and the view, a third year law student stopped to talk with us for a while. Most of the male students were dressed in a similar fashion: button-down shirts or sweaters and blue jeans or khakis. The women had a much wider variety of dress from traditional saris to blue jeans to stylish outfits and highheels.

The road to Tara Devi was deserted except for the workers doing some spring maintenance, which was good because it was a challenging drive with a single car on the road. Several kilometers of steep corners and switchbacks delivered us to a parking lot from which we hiked to the summit. There were several Hindus worshipping in the temple, ringing the two bells at the entrance whenever they arrived or departed. The view is magnificent encompassing valleys in all directions, the hillsides terraced and covered in bright green crops, contrasting with the darker evergreens.

The last temple in the valley also had a nice view up the ridges into Shimla. There were few people worshipping. Henk and I found a devotee inside that sold us some offerings, applied an orange smudge to our foreheads, and tied colored bracelets around our wrists. We returned to Shimla shortly after four to bask in the late afternoon sun and watch sunset from the terrace at the Hotel Combermere.

On Saturday evening while we enjoyed another fantastic view, we met some other students--a Dutch man named Mike, and an Englishwomen living in Japan named Michelle--who are studying at Koenig and joined them for dinner. After dinner we stopped by the Discoteque Footloose at Mike's suggestion. The dance floor was not crowded but there were several groups of men and one group of women dancing to a DJ who mixed both Indian and Western dance music. One of the men told me a bit about some of the songs--sexually suggestive songs followed spiritual techno in a strange mix of sacred and secular. The YMCA closes its gate at eleven, so Henk and I headed out just at about a quarter 'till, bidding farewell to Mike and Michelle.

Henk and I hiked to the Monkey Temple at the top of the ridge overlooking Shimla on Sunday afternoon. The paved road was ridiculously steep and quite hot in the sunlight. Near the summit, the evergreens cast some pleasant shade over the grassy expanses at the top. The temple itself is small, but brightly covered. There was a constant flow of people coming and going to worship.

I met another fellow traveller, Mike from Scotland, Monday afternoon and walked a bit more around the valley. We found yet another temple, Kali Bari Mandir, past the east end of the mall that had another grand view to the west. Mike worked the past six or seven years in Madrid and I got quite a few recommendations for my visit to Spain with my parents.

Most of the restaurants close quite early in Shimla, which I found odd, because no one seems to get up and around before about ten o'clock. The exception was the Pub at the Willow Banks Hotel, which is a pleasant place with very nice help. There we met a couple Canadians and an English couple, both of whom were visiting family in India. We stopped in quite often to talk and watch the Cricket World Cup, going on in the Carribean right now.

When I arrived in Shimla, I had only planned to stay a few days but it was so quiet, pleasant, and friendly that I stayed almost a week. I left on Tuesday, almost missing my bus because of breakfast with Mike and Henk, and arrived in McLeod Ganj last night.

Varanasi, City of Shiva

Varanasi, on the western bank of the Ganges in the northeastern plains of India, has been continuously inhabited since before 3000 BC. The more modern sections of the city sprawl westward away from the river, but the old city is firmly rooted in ritual Hindu traditions tied to the Ganges. All activities seem to revolve around the ghats, which are the concrete and stone jetties that stretch for about seven kilometers along the riverbank. A deviously complicated network of twisting, narrow alleys leads up from the ghats through temples, hotels, shops, and residences to the main thoroughfairs. The complex gives the impression of a living organism growing opportunistically up the riverbank.

I arrived in Varanasi at noon after a fifteen hour overnight train ride from Delhi. Autorickshaws are not allowed in the old city so I got a ride to the edge and started walking in search of the hotel I had picked out. A tout picked me out almost immediately and would not be disuaded from showing me around. He lead me through the city, along the walkways, up and down staircases to bring me, completely disoriented, to my hotel, which was full. At first I thought that the path he chose was deliberately convoluted to make me more reliant on his service, but as I explored later, I realized that his route was actually quite direct. He wanted to take me to his hotel once I discovered that the first was full, but I insisted on trying another I had chosen. I found a decent room there and paid him 'baksheesh', a small payment in gratitude.

After settling in, I set out to explore the ghats. After getting a bit lost in the alleys, I found a main street but soon saw a funeral procession that I followed down to the riverbank, emerging at Manikarnika, the main cremation ghat. The procession consisted of six or sevel pallbearers holding a wooden stretcher with a body wrapped in a bright purple shroud, trimmed in gold. The chanted as they walked quickly to the river.

Hindus believe that a soul cremated here goes straight to heaven, instead of being reborn back on earth. The procession first immersed the body in the Ganges and then set it on the bank, waiting for the fire tender to build a pyre. There are several types of wood from which a pyre can be constructed: sandalwood (2000 Rs/kg or 20 USD/lb), banayan wood (180 Rs/kg or 2 USD/lb), and another that I forgot. A pyre requires about two hundred kilograms of wood, which is weighed out from the huge stacks on crude balances above the cremation area.

Once the pyre is prepared, the body is laid on top and lit from a perpetual flame kept alight in an small alcove to the side. The fire tender keeps the fire burning, roughly shoving the wood and body around with a long stick for the two or three hours it takes to be consumed. The fire is put out when only a small bit remains: the hip bones for women and part of the ribcage for men. When it is finished, a line of men from the deceased family forms a line from the river to the cremation spot. Five times, they pass a pot of water from the river up to the remains, where it is tossed over the last mans shoulder onto the smouldering remains. Afterwards, the remaining bones are thrown into the Ganges and the ash is placed on a communal pile that is later sifted for jewelry. Only the men from the family are allowed at the cremation site, as women are considered too emotional to be present.

I watched several cremations in their various stages from a slightly elevated platform until the smoke shifted and engulfed me. The lower cremation platform has room for about sixteen simultaneous ceremonies for the lower castes. Brahmins, are cremated on a smaller platform that sits above.

The ghats seem most crowded in the morning and evenings, but the afternoon was fairly quiet, except for the crowds of boatmen that offer rides about every thirty seconds. The structures at the edge of the ghats are tall, split by steep staircases leading back into the city. I came upon several groups of children playing cricket, often hitting the ball into the river. There is a large evening ritual in the evening at Dasaswamedh Ghat, which I missed because I got lost for a harrowing hour in the old city. The landmarks in the alleys are all so indistinguishable from one another that I ended up a full half mile north of my hotel and had to walk along the river after dark to find my way back. Most of the alleys had normal Indians walking to or from their homes, which felt safe, but some of the darker alleys had shadier characters and angry dogs.

After reaching my hotel at eight o'clock, I was hesitant to go out and look for the evening ritual, so I settled for dinner at the hotel. As I was preparing for bed, I heard chanting outside and saw a long procession of boats stretched across the river, their occupants holding candles.

In the morning I got up at sunrise and walked the ghats again. Groups of people gathered to bathe and wash their clothes in the river. The market at Dasaswamedh was in noisy full swing when I arrived as the sun was rising from behing the bank of clouds to the east. Just as the sun started to clear the clouds, a storm rolled in from the west. The sky darkened again and lightening struck all around the old city. As the first fat drops of rain started to fall, people started packing their things are running back up for cover in the city. I just made it to a restaurant as the storm broke and had a pleasant breakfast until the rain stopped and the sun shone through the remaining haze about an hour later.

I continued walking exploring the city for a few hours until mid-afternoon when I went to pick up my luggage and head to the train station for another overnight ride back to Delhi.

The Taj Mahal (Agra)

The Taj Mahal was built by Shah Jahan, the fifth Mughal emperor, as the tomb for his second wife, Arjumand Bano Begum, or Mumtaz Mahal. They were married in 1612, sixteen years before Shah Jahan began his rule, and she died in 1631 in childbirth. Shah Jahan had planned to build his own tomb, a black onyx mirror of the Taj Mahal across the river, but his youngest son, Aurangzeb feared that its construction would bankrupt the kingdom. Aurangzeb prevented that possibility by killing his three older brothers, taking control of the empire, and imprisoning his father until he died, eight years later.

After the striking white marble with which the Taj Mahal is constructed, symmetry is its next most conspicuous feature. The entire structure, from the Taj Mahal itself, to the enclosing walls and buildings seems in perfect order. The mosque located directly west of the Taj Mahal even has a counterpart on the east side--necessarily used for other functions as its orientation to Mecca is not correct. Large expanses of the Taj Mahal itself are inlaid with floral patterns and verses from the Quran in semiprecious stones, from as far as Baghdad and Russia.

The Mughals Empire was founded by Babur in 1526 and declined after the end of Aurangzeb's rule in 1707. Many of the most impressive monuments--tombs, forts, and palaces--in the areas surrounding Delhi were constructed during this time. Agra Fort, precursor to Red Fort in Delhi is a beautiful example of the evolving architecture.

The outer and inner walls that surround Agra Fort, 30 and 70 feet high, respectively, are constructed of red sandstone that was quarried nearby, as are the older sections of the palace. Shah Jahan's material of choice was white marble, from Jaipur in Rajasthan some 400 kilometers distant, which he retrofitted into the older parts of the palace and used entirely for his own additions. A sense of regal imagination is evident throughout, from the emperor's quarters themselves to several mosques and a bazaar. The buildings were designed to stay cool in the summer and a system of elevated water tanks fed water streams and fountains that flowed around the palace.

Agra is not far from Delhi, only 200 kilometers, and many people take day tours here. I have found Agra itself quite pleasant--much more laid back than Delhi. There are people here who are actually interested in conversation without ulterior motive. Indians also seem to want to have their picture taken with foreigners. I think I was asked to pose with vacationing Indians five or six times. If you ever find yourself here in Agra searching for budget accommodations with a phenomenal rooftop view of the Taj Mahal, I'd recommend Shanti Lodge. Just be sure to bring a mosquito net--sleeping in DEET is gross.

Tonight I take the overnight train to Varanasi, the city of Shiva, on the Ganges river, which one of my friends back home describes as one of the craziest cities in the world.

Four days in Delhi

My first few days in India were hard. The tourist sections of Delhi are crowded and filled with three types of people: tourists, very friendly people who want your money, and people who couldn't be bothered by your existence.

My taxi ride from the Delhi airport to the traveller's neighborhood of Pahar Ganj set half of the tone for my stay in India's capital. The taxi driver was exceedingly polite. He was full of information and opinions about what constitutes "real" Delhi and "real" India versus what constitutes the "fake", Westernized culture. These opinions gradually changed to recommendations about where I should stay and how I should travel, culminating in a stop at a travel agency where the agent called the hotel I had chosen and informed me that there were no rooms available. I left the travel agent and asked the taxi driver to drop me off at the hotel anyway, against his protests, where I found a room.

Pahar Ganj is a dirty strip of indistinguishable, four story buildings--hotels, restaurants, and shops--clustered for a quarter mile along a central street. What it lacks in charm and cleanliness, I hoped it would compensate with convenient and inexpensive accommodation. It is also situated next to the New Delhi train station, not so far from both the central upscale section of New Delhi, Connaught Place, and the sights and bazaars of Old Delhi. Cows and dogs wander the streets aimlessly, sometimes snacking on the piles of trash that accumulate in the less traficked areas.

While walking down the street in Pahar Ganj, tourists are constantly hailed by touts, who start friendly conversations with the intent of arranging the next leg of your journey. After an introductory several minutes of dialogue they try to get you inside of their 'office'. After the second or third repetition, this dance gets stale. There are also aggressive beggars, overbearing rickshaw drivers, and obnoxious cab drivers. Each time I encountered one of these characters, a game ensued where they argued why I should either give them money or use their services, invalidating any objection.

Sunday was the second day of the Holi Festival, which is the Hindu celebration of the arrival of spring. Unlike Thamel in Kathmandu, where the celebration seemed quite intense around the tourists, Pahar Ganj in Delhi seemed largely empty of revelers. Sitting in a rooftop restaurant, reading, I could often hear shouts of large crowds, but they always seemed a few blocks away. Their presence was evident by color everywhere: pinks, oranges, reds, and greens, splattered on streets, people, and animals.

On Monday, I set the modest goals of posting a package home and buying a rail ticket to Agra, to see the Taj Mahal. These goals turned out not to be so modest and I was relieved when I finally succeeded, eight hours later. I won't go into the details, but the impressions I took from the experience were the other important half of how Delhi affected me. In contrast with the specious camaraderie of Pahar Ganj, postal workers and train reservation bureaucrats can't be troubled about you. No one explains anything, only gestures vaguely that you should be somewhere else.

Tuesday and Wednesday, I actually got out to see some of the city. I spent Monday in Old Delhi, seeing the huge and impressive Red Fort, built by the Mughal Empire in the 17th century, Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in India, Chandri Chowk, the crowded marketplace, and the Gandhi Memorial Museum. I enjoyed the Red Fort, with its high, red sandstone walls and the delicate architecture of its state buildings within. The highlight, however, was the photography collection at the Gandhi Memorial Museum, with its interpretive documents.

"In my humble opinion, non-cooperation with evil is as much a duty as cooperation with good. ... as evil can only be sustained by violence, withdrawal of support of evil requires complete abstention of violence." - M. K. Gandhi

On Wednesday, I spent almost all day at the National Museum, whose three floors are full of diverse collections. Probably half of the exhibits are closed for renovation, but I could have spent even longer perusing the open collection. The audio tour and extensive maps did a good job of framing the first civilization to inhabit the Indus Valley, the Harappans, but the rest of the museum, despite the quality of its artefacts, failed to pull together a coherent history.

By Wednesday I started to feel better about my experience in Delhi. I could recognize who wanted something from me and who was really interested in conversation for its own sake. I no longer felt guilty for evading the polite but circular and vaguely disrespectful arguments employed by people who want something. The more confidence I find in my surroundings, the more I am able to open up to the worthwhile aspects. Nevertheless, I was happy to depart on the train bound for Agra at six-fifteen on Thursday morning.

Rain in Pokhara

The bus ride to Pokhara is long. It took us ten hours to travel less than three hundred kilometers westward along one of the main highways in Nepal. The road is two lanes wide and winds through some of the most rugged terrain I've ever traversed. It's no wonder that Nepal has retained so much of its old culture--it is deviously difficult of transporting anything into or out of the hills. On the way we saw two accidents, one resulting in a charred bus that remained on the road and the other a crushed bus that had rolled off the highway and down a steep precipice to rest two or three hundred feet below.

Pokhara is a lakeside town in central Nepal a few dozen kilometers south of the Annapurna Range of the Himalayas. The Lakeside district is the highly touristed strip on the east bank of the Phewa Tal (lake). The Pokhara valley stretches south and east from the lake and is covered with small farms. The ridges that surround Pokhara are high and shield most of the large mountains to the north from view.

My first morning in Pokhara started out clear and from the hotel balcony I saw Machhapuchhre (or Fishtail), which at 6997m is the largest mountain I've ever been so close to. It was strikingly beautiful. When I checked back after breakfast, the clouds had rolled over the town, where they would stay until I left.

My time in Pokhara was less than ideal. Besides the clouds and rain, I got quite sick and ended up spending about twenty-four hours in a tenuous state--on one hand wanting to get out and hike in the hills, but, on the other, being afraid to be far from a bathroom. I did try hiking to the World Peace Monastery which was built by Japanese monks at the summit of a hill overlooking the lake, but as I got close to the summit, the dreary conditions delivered their latent precipitation. I was within a few hundred yards of the monastery but I turned back as a thick fog obscured my view and the conditions turned a bit hypothermic. Despite the rain, clouds, and being sick, the hike was still enjoyable. The thick forest isolates the trail from the surrounding settlements until it emerges on the ridgetops where stone houses sit above steep, terraced farms.

After several different kinds of medication and twelve hours of sleep my body started to recover, just in time to catch a flight back to Kathmandu. The weather cleared about an hour before we boarded. It felt a bit criminal to leave such a beautiful place so superficially explored.

Back in Kathmandu I checked into a hotel in Thamel for what I hoped would be an overnight stay and then headed out to find an air ticket to Delhi for the next day. The second airline office I tried had a seat, but it was in first class. I was about to turn it down, but I asked how much it cost. As it was still within my budget, I took it and arrived comfortably here in India late this afternoon.

Both India and Nepal are celebrating a holiday or festival called Holi this weekend. This morning in Kathmandu, kids were standing in the streets and on rooftops throwing bags of water and dye at each other and everyone else. I've heard that here in Delhi today is usually reserved for prayer and tomorrow is the big wet color day. I hope my camera survives to take some good pictures.

James!

What are the odds that on my first trip to Nepal one of my good friends would be visiting also? I've no idea, but they can't be that high, which makes it really fortunate that James and I were able to meet up in Kathmandu for a couple days.

James's Nepali friend from Seattle, Anup, just got married and invited a group of his friends over for the traditional Nepali wedding. They arrived in mid-February and spent two weeks celebrating the wedding and sightseeing. I met them on Saturday just after they'd returned from Pokhara, a beautiful town in western Nepal.

In addition to catching up with James and hearing all kinds of stories, both ridiculous and horrifying, about his stay, his friends are quite interesting and fun. On Saturday evening, we went out to the swank Hotel Everest to have some drinks with some high school friends of Anup and Santtu, who is Finnish, but grew up in Nepal. It turns out that their high school friends are now all entrepreneurs--one of them owned the hotel. The service was excellent and the conversation gave those of us new to Nepal a view on what it means to be rich in a poor country.

Afterwards, we all went to Anup's parents' house over in the Dilli Bazaar neighborhood of Kathmandu, which is a little less hectic than Thamel, where I was staying before. Anup's sister cooked a traditional Nepali dinner, which was fantastic. They told me I was lucky to dine on Saturday because that is the only night that they include meat. After an epic stuffing, Anup showed us some pictures of the countryside until late, when we all retired to either the guest rooms or the hotel.

On Sunday, I had breakfast at the hotel with Tom while we waited for James to come over from the house. Tom knows this group from Seattle but is currently working for a Chinese manufacturer in a city close to Hong Kong. His experiences in China sound both exciting and painfully frustrating, but always entertaining.

When James arrived, he and I agreed to meet Tom for lunch over in Thamel and set out walking across Kathmandu to run an errand and do some shopping. After getting lost for about half an hour we eventually met up with Tom for a _very_ slow lunch. Afterwards James and I walked through a light drizzle looking for some interesting souvenirs. Our success was mixed and I think James gave up on some of the items he would have liked.

That evening James, Tom, Santtu, and I went out in Thamel. It seemed that we found the best places earliest in the evening--the venue selection seriously thins after about ten-thirty. Santtu stayed out for two places, Buddha Bar and J Bar, but things got strange after that.

Some Nepali men insisted that we join them dancing at our third stop. There was a strange improvisational battle going on between three women on a short stage and a group of patrons, who were all men, on the dance floor immediately in front. One man and one woman would face off, each singing a clever rhyming composition. Between each verse the women would sing a chorus and all the men would dance in a strange Nepali style, holding their arms out at shoulder height, dipping one shoulder towards the floor, and then turning in that direction. While I was trying to imitate them, I asked one to translate for me, but the lyrics didn't make much sense. I think that the singers were using a lot of poetic euphemisms, or my translator had no idea what he was talking about.

That place closed at about eleven-thirty but some of the men who were dancing wanted to take us to another place that was deserted and overpriced. After Tom got extorted in the rest room (I think they charged him about five dollars to let him leave) we left and tried to find another place. We started walking in search of another place but eventually took a circuitous cab ride where the driver took about fifteen blocks to drop us off one block from where we began (we complained and didn't have to pay). After the bum cab ride we decided to call it a night and headed back to Dilli Bazaar.

Tom and James flew to Bangkok on Monday afternoon on their ways home. After our goodbyes, I headed back to some budget accommodations in Thamel and booked a bus ticket to Pokhara for Tuesday.

James was definitely ready to head home. He'd had a bit of rough health in Pokhara and was generally tired of the developing world. It was therapeutic to vent with someone. Despite his readiness to leave, it would have been nice to hang out a little while longer.

Are all cities in Asia the same?

There seems to be this conventional wisdom among travellers that all Asian cities are the same.

A typical exchange:

-"Oh, you've been to [some Asian city]! How did you like it?"
-"Oh, you know. It's just like all the other cities in Asia."

Every time I heard a variation on this exchange, I would shake my head and wonder how anyone could think Chiang Mai, Thailand was like Dalat, Vietnam. Now, on my third day in Kathmandu (the eleventh city in Asia I've visited) I'm beginning to see where they might be coming from. I'm going to spoil the implied conclusion right now: No, Asian cities are not all the same. However, many of them seem to share at least a few conspicuous qualities.

I arrived in Kathmandu on Wednesday afternoon after an overnight stay on Khao San Road in Bangkok. The first time Emily and I stayed there, I remember it for its crazy Westernized exoticism. This time felt very different. I'm sure there were a few objective differences, but the biggest difference seems to be that it felt normal. I was also struck by how courteous the Thai are. Cambodians and Vietnamese may be nice, but they are not always that polite. The Thai seem to be always pleasant.

Kathmandu, on the other hand, does not feel normal or polite. From the moment I stepped into the virtual riot of touts advertising cab rides and hotels until the moment I closed the door of my hotel room, I was surrounded by advertisement and coercion. I took a government sponsored taxi into town because I thought it would protect me from touts. Then, at the airport exit, the taxi driver stopped and picked up anther man who proceeded to give me a sales pitch about good hotels and his trekking agency.

Kathmandu is much poorer than most of the places I saw in Vietnam--not quite as bad off as Cambodia, but maybe close. It was hard to get much perspective on the city on the short ride from the airport. I saw street after dirty street until we reached the Thamel neighborhood, which is a bit of a backpacker's district, when everything changed to hotels, souvenir shops, internet cafes, and restaurants.

This is apparently not the season for panoramic views in the Kathmandu Valley. There are large mountains in all directions from the city, but in the morning a thick fog hides them and by the time the sun clears the fog an impenetrable haze has taken over. It is partially due to that haze, I think, that my throat is perpetually sore and the color of my phlegm is somewhat peculiar.

So, that's been a lot of complaining so far. Let me round it out and then focus on some things I actually enjoy about this place:

1) Beggars - I had a child lean on me for the entire walk from the supermarket back to my hotel, perhaps a quarter mile, repeating, "Please, sir. Five rupees. Please, sir."
2) Holy men who overcharge for a five second service - Today a man wanted the equivalent of USD2.85 for placing a flower blossom on my head and painting my forehead with his thumb. "God's blessing, very lucky, 200 rupees," he said nodding and smiling. I was trying to give him something more like fifty cents, which he finally accepted after I tried to walk away.

3) No good pictures - The jumble of buildings all promiscuously on top of one another makes walking the streets always surprising and somewhat mystical. It also means that you can never get far enough away from anything moderately large to get a well-framed picture.

4) Hashish? Hashish? - How many times have I been offered drugs? Probably twenty.

Phew. Alright. If some of you are asking how the heck I'll survive India if these things bother me now, rest assured, I'm asking myself the same thing. A friend of mine once said, "Nepal is like India Light," which is a good argument for being here first, I think.

So, aside from all that, Kathmandu can be charming. My hotel room is on the fifth and highest floor and gives a nice view both north and south over the Thamel neighborhood. It's a relief sometimes to look down into the street and watch from a safe distance. Thamel is also not a domain of early risers. The streets stay almost deserted until almost nine o'clock in the morning.

On Thursday, I caught up on some email and then walked a few blocks south to Durbar Square, which is a collection of over thirty temples within a few city blocks. The temples have been constructed and augmented over a period of several hundred years. There are a few predominant styles but each edifice is unique and independent of the other structures. South from Durbar Square runs Freak Street, which apparently housed a large community of hippies in the sixties and seventies, doing what hippies did back then. After exploring the Durbar Square area, I walked east on New Road to the unmaintained park Tundinkel and then back to Thamel through a bunch of street markets. New Road is lined with a wide variety of upscale boutiques (upscale being a relative term comparing them to the other venues I've seen here) selling nice clothes, watches, and electronics. The street markets reek of character. Incense, vegetables, baked goods, pots, pans, and everything else anyone needs to live are conveniently repeated for blocks and blocks--some of the streets so narrow that two people barely fit walking opposite directions until a motorcycle comes barrelling down the center.

Today, I rented a bicycle and got out of the city. I biked north over heavily potholed roads on the west side of Thamel, across the Bisnumati River, and up to the entrance of the Nagarjun Reserved Forest. Leaving my bike at the entrance, I hiked the five kilometer trail to the summit, Jamacho, at seven thousand feet. I met no one until the strange scene at the temple. The views on the ascent were not what I'd hoped because of the midday haze, but perhaps seeing only forested ridges instead of the city stretching across the valley floor was a good thing.

The stupa and watchtower at the summit are adorned with strings of prayer flags that stretch from their pinacles down into the trees, sometimes hundreds of feet long. A group of three men were throwing rice and hundreds of small prayer sheets from the watchtower, carpeting the top of the hill in small pieces of paper. Some monks sat in a shelter facing the stupa chanting and playing musical instruments while laypeople lit candles. A large group of young monks seemed to be taking a lunch break in the grass.

I took a detour on my way to return the bicycle along the western edge of Kathmandu to see Swayambhu, sometimes called the Monkey Temple. Swayambhu is also at the summit of a hill, but is much more accessible with a staircase leading from the gate to the top. Swayambhu has been a site of worship for over fifteen hundred years although the buildings are more recent. The centerpiece is a huge gilded stupa with Buddha statues around its base facing each of the cardinal directions.

After a peaceful ramble through the extensive network of brick terraces, I biked back into town, and returned my bike. Now, I'm hungry and I think it's time to eat.