Good Girls and Bad Girls: Wanderlust

“Good girls go to heaven and bad girls everywhere” are part of the lyrics from the hit song “Wanderlust” by the Band The Weekend. I guess I get to go everywhere. I am really a gypsy at heart. So heaven can wait.

Though I’d love to visit every nook and corner of the world, yet when I step into an aircraft I turn into a chicken. I have no doubt that traveling by plane is the most unnatural way to go from one place to another. Cooped up in a small space like a caged animal and subject to the most foul smells and loud talking and most inconsiderate fellow passengers whose heads are practically in your lap when they lean back the seats in front of you is not my definition of fun. I’d rather lean back in my own chair on my deck and read Emily Dickinson’s, “There is no frigate like a book!” and be carried away by my imagination to every far away land there is. For good measure from time to time I’d glance at the Grand Canal twenty yards from my property and imagine it to be the Nile or the Danube or any other famous body of water that corresponds with the cuisine on hand.

These days, even before you leave home for any distant land, you can, thanks to Google Earth, virtually be there. So why must I subject myself to the indignities and inconveniences that travel entails? Millions of people do, however. The answer seems to be that virtual presence is not the same as the real deal. How does one smell the flora of a place on the computer or the television screen? How does one dip one’s toes in the river Amazon or hold an adorable sloth against one’s chest or nuzzle a dolphin’s bottle nose if one doesn't seek them out physically?

If one wants the direct experience of a place one needs to be standing on the native soil and breathing in the same air the natives do. There is really no substitute to savoring a place in person all your senses sated by the direct contact with every facet of the place. A book can be a frigate only up to a point. Sorry, Emily. Then again, you were a recluse. Or were you just too busy penning those timeless poems to be wasting your time traveling. Anyway, at least in my case, my boarding an actual frigate leads to material often worth a whole book. Not to mention the photos and videos these days to share with the entire world.

Would the modern world’s mobility and technological inventions have changed Emily’s perspective? And what a different take her contemporary Mark twain had on travel? “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts,” he declared. Often, I feel amused at the sight of people in public places where life in its many faceted splendor is happening right before their eyes yet they are lost in their books, or in today’s world more likely their smart phones or laptops. 

These days, before you leave for a place you can check it out as if you are already there and then when you return you revisit it as many times as you want in so many ways without leaving your home. How wonderful is that?

In March of 2012, I began my plans to visit Europe that May. Paris was to be our last stop. Because particularly in Paris it’s hard to find a place of your liking to stay easily, Paris is where I booked my apartment first, for three nights and four days using Waytostay.com. As the other pieces of my trip fell into place, I realized I needed a place to stay one more night at the beginning of my stay in Paris. The place I had booked was occupied that previous night. I was willing to book another place for that one night but wanted it close to my apartment. I used Google Earth and bingo, I found a room with a private bath at Le Montclaire Hostel across from my Waytostay.com apartment. I was thrilled. But this convenience of being close to my apartment came with more adventure than I had bargained for. My sleep was compromised to put it mildly. But the experience of hostel night life in middle age was still something to write home about. So was the unlimited breakfast buffet with fresh coffee and fresh orange juice and ooh lala, fresh croissant and a variety of jams in a quaint den-like basement setting and surrounded by youngsters from around the world lusting to wander in all ways possible.

Anyway, what’s travel without some adventure? When you plan a vacation all on your own with no travel agent to hold your hand, believe you me, you have more than your share of adventure. Sometimes enough to last a lifetime. You really need a gypsy’s un-moored DNA to withstand surprise-filled travel. 

Indeed, heaven can wait. I do plan to wander more once I get over my fear of flying. Until then I will curl up with Emily’s poems and call my own little Grand Canal across from my home the Grand Canal of Venice as I wolf down my spiced-up pasta.

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In the blink of an eye losing your wallet

At the promo price of $2.79/gallon, I buy more milk than I expected and so need one more bag. Once I am at the cash register, I transfer my stuff from the shopping cart to the counter, and handing over my credit card to the cashier, with her permission, I step out to grab a third bag from my car trunk. I am back in a jiffy making my way around a blond, slightly wobbly woman in a pastel (lavender was it?) pantsuit in the doorway, which, annoyingly, a few stacks of baskets that stand sentry at the entrance and a fruit stand on one side of the passageway itself have narrowed. I make a mental note of telling the cashier to widen the passageway by moving the baskets elsewhere. Something about the youngish looking middle-aged woman at the doorway, too, dressed to impress in her vintage clothing, makes an impression on my mind. For some reason, she doesn’t come across as a real shopper as she seems only to be studying the $1.99/pound cherries on the fruit stand.

Once I reach the register, I realize that my double-flapped, leather, checkbook-sized wallet I had held in my hand after handing over my credit card to the cashier is missing. Frantically, I look for it in the vicinity, run back to the trunk, check there and return dejected. Next, feeling stupid for not putting away my wallet in my pocket book, and thinking will I ever learn? I roll the cart out of the store, rest it against a lamp-post on the sidewalk, return to the car, and check the trunk again. Just then, my mind darts back to the wobbly woman at the doorway. Brushing past her, I might have dropped my wallet in the passageway and she might have picked it up. I leap toward the sidewalk. A few yards away weighed down to one side by a tote bag there she is, waddling away. “Miss,” I cry.

The woman stops and turns around as if a police command has been issued. Held up at above head level something black in an open position dangles from her left hand. Voila, it is my wallet! Lowering her hand and extending it and heading toward me, in a flustered voice, she says, “Uh, I was just about to figure out whom to return it to.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” I say and rush toward her and as I take the open wallet back, I notice my paper money gone. I have no qualms about instantly accusing the woman of stealing it. She protests, which is when, I notice a walking stick in her hand. Is she disabled? I wonder. Normally, a fighter in the face of perceived injustice, I also pick my battles. This was definitely a battle to be overlooked.

Looking ghostly (suddenly, she looks bleached head to toe; do I l strike her as a monster?), she drags, “You have your cards . . ..” 

Feeling guilty for calling, possibly, a disabled person a thief, yet not letting go completely yet, I persist, “You did take my cash, didn’t you? . . . Twenty three dollars.”

She protests again but I halt when she says, “I was at the store to find out if they take EBT cards.”

My heart sinks. Having seen at many stores, “EBT accepted here” I figure EBT is some kind of a welfare card. Still, like a woman possessed, I ask, “You took my money, didn’t you? . . . But, I guess you need that money.” Cheeky words, while still kind, substitute for any other possible action against her. I am a Scorpio and thus known for my stings. By now, I am by my car. I don’t care for the money anymore but I still wish the woman had admitted her guilt. Under the circumstances, stealing seems excusable but not lying. I am owed at least honesty from her. Being robbed, and then to be lied about it, feels like injury and insult in one punch.

All I hear is, “Do I look like someone who would do that?”

I yell back, “None of us look like who we really are.”

Before I get into my car, I stick my head into the store and ask, “What’s an EBT card?” The cashier tries explaining and says,

“Yes,” when I interject “It’s something the government gives out, right?”

Though it was ultimately my fault, I still feel lousy losing the money and calculate the number of gallons of milk I could have bought or any number of other things with it. Charity too enters my mind. The poetic justice in someone truly needy receiving manna from heaven does not escape me either.  However, for all this noble sentiment, this would be the last time I hold my wallet in my hand once its business being there is over.

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The 1/10th Second

The gash on the philtrum was the last straw. The cut was the result of a typically quick, jerky turn I made a moment earlier to avoid locking eyes with the un-announced visitor at the front door on this peaceful Sunday afternoon.

Splat! Next, a shooting pain. Reflexively my hand reached for the philtrum, that narrow gutter between the lip and the nose, the spot that hit the wall corner in the hallway as I turned around to hide from the stranger. I felt something wet perched precariously on my upper lip. It was blood. My left cheekbone area too throbbed. I felt stupid. I ran to the bathroom mirror and checked the cut and the reddened cheekbone area. The cut was bleeding still. I asked my husband to get me an ice pack. My usual impatience wondered why he was taking so long. Unlike me, he never did anything in a hurry. Often, I had wondered if I did things fast to make up for his slowness. Not that my speed has ever got me anywhere faster, that is, if at all I make it to my destination. Because of my tendency to speed, on any occasion, though, the two of us might begin our walk or stroll together, within the next few minutes, I am usually, a, few steps ahead of him and the distance only increases. 

I don’t know at what point in my life I began to skip, hop and jump. I also used to speak too fast. Then at some point, I noticed that important people took their time in delivering their thoughts. So I too began to speak more deliberately but with respect to movements, whether I walked or just used my hands, I tended to move faster than I really had to, my mind feeling stressed out as well. My hands may be focused on the present activity but my mind had already traveled mile a minute to the next several tasks at hand. My poor hand trying to keep up with my lunatic mind would invariably drop the object in its possession, or spill something, or tear, or crack or break. You name it and I’d have done it at least once. Sometimes I would step on my own toes. When it comes to eating, though, I am very slow.

Another person who always was in the express lane was my late maternal uncle Neelu. A bright and successful man, once, he stepped on my right eye while, as a seven-year-old, I slept on a futon on the floor in his bedroom. It was the middle of the night, pitch dark, and suddenly I felt a heel grind into my eye socket. So being a close relative of this literally cross-eyed uncoordinated man, I assumed that I had inherited his genes and so that was that. This tendency on my part to drop, spill, crack, break, and so on also made me over caution others. I constantly issue warnings: Be careful. Don’t leave the cup on the edge. Don’t walk around bare feet even inside the house. Many more such dictums constantly emanate from my lips. The best one is, don’t hold the knife pointing out unless you plan to stab someone. Of course, this last one is sane advice and there are people who hold the knife the wrong way. Common sense really is not so common.

Anyway, that Sunday, it was a peaceful afternoon. I had just finished listening to the selected shorts on NPR. Sunday afternoons is often guilt free for me, especially if I have caught up on most of my New York Times reading and the house is clean. I felt like napping a bit and just as my head hit the pillow, I heard my malfunctioning doorbell let out a feeble ring and instantly, I jumped out of bed thinking it was possibly John, our next door neighbor who sometimes shows up at the door unannounced. As I reached the top of the staircase that led down to the door, through the glass transom above it, I saw a young African-American man I didn’t recognize. So, before this stranger could spot me I tried to make a beeline for my bedroom. However, when I swung around, what met my face was the metal reinforced wall corner.

Just as I began to feel alone in this world for not being able to walk and chew gum at the same time like most of the world could, out of the blue, I came across a report on TV. According to research, by slowing down by just 1/10^th of a second, one could avoid many accidents, and that, one/third of the population was klutzy like I.

Now I use an extra 1/10^th second to complete every movement of mine and not surprisingly all my parts are intact.

###

Support

The class assignment in the Thursday group to be completed in 10 minutes:

Support brings to my mind scaffolding. I don’t like the word support. Support evokes a state of helplessness, a needy state. I don’t ever want to be in such a state yet without the mostly unasked support I got in life, I won’t be where I am. Between getting support and giving I’d rather give. My husband reminds me that we are all interdependent and this is the way it was meant to be. I guess so, and it’s true. Without the wind a bird cannot fly for all the freedom she exhibits.

As a first born I think I have been there for the family more than I might have been had I not been a first born. My husband too is a first born. Maybe, having played a supportive role most of my life I find it hard to be in a state when I am the needy one. Switching gears, I seek the support of my accompanists and that of the audience without which my art may wither out. Without the support of my Monday group I wouldn’t have probably submitted my piece to the Modern Love section of The Sunday Times. I guess, no woman can be an island unto herself. Even if she is, here too the land is supporting her.

Withholding of support intrigues me. There are those who wait for which way the wind blows before they decide to add their support. They have the means but wait on the sidelines because on their own they cannot decide on the merit of a cause.  

The opposite of support is sabotaging. Even friends can be saboteurs. Remember the expression, “with friends like this who needs enemies?”

Ciao!

Ro.

"I have a limit"

Like many things in life, quite serendipitously and thanks to my friend Grace Luis of Long Beach, NY, I recently joined a writers' group that meets every Monday and the first Thursday every month at the Long Beach Library. This turned out to be an experience I wish had graced me earlier. But nothing happens to before its time. Anyway, from now on, I will post some of the stuff I write for the group. Here they come:

For my first Thursday assignment the prompt was, "I have a limit."

Once I read somewhere that until you try the impossible you don’t know what’s possible. In that case, I must be trying the impossible often, especially when it comes to my family, because I have many breakdowns, a clear indicator that I have reached my limit. I have also read that breakdowns lead to breakthroughs and necessity is the mother of invention.  One must constantly push the envelope. In other words, reaching one’s limit may be actually a positive occurrence and how does one really know one’s limit until one is face to face with it? And then the bigger challenge is how to overcome the limit? Or can they even be overcome?

True that I might be aware of my limit with respect to mountaineering skills, or, my running abilities, or even my level of tolerance for “nonsense.” Yet, only by pushing ourselves do we also push the limit we might erroneously set for ourselves. Yet, stepping outside one’s comfort zone is hard but walking away from a challenge is also no less hard. Oh, all these eternal dilemmas one has to deal with. To push or not to push!

In some cultures, being a female is a limitation, being a minority is, the corporate glass ceiling is, the biggest kahuna of them all, death is a limitation but if we are focused on the limitations, the world would come to a standstill. It’s those who push the limits who move the world forward. Even conclusions which seem rock solid at one time and thus seemingly end further exploration turn out to be outdated once these foregone conclusions are challenged and new discoveries are made.  This is when a flat world becomes round.

All don’ts, cant’s and all other ‘nts  are someone or yourself putting a limit on you. Don’t question authority is my favorite. Ha! Limits are often imposed on us because this is one way the self-centered remove competition. But the worst limitation is the one we put upon ourselves. We do this because of the fear of failure or laziness or some kind of previous bad experience. The once bit, twice shy factor.

My conclusion is that the only real limit we have is the limit we put on ourselves and the limit imposed by death, of course. In some belief systems even death is not a limitation.  As long as you have unfulfilled desires and urges to conquer the limits you perceive, you will come back to this earth to see all your dreams through.

Are limits ever good, though? Yes, they are. This is why we secure a crib with rails and have a brake in our vehicles to quote just a couple of examples. Overeating and boring conversation must have a limit.   But overall, “I have a limit” is a crippling thought and we must try all we can to reach our full potential which must be our last frontier. No other barrier should be. Being at the top of our game must be the goal we need to set for ourselves and this goal actually delimits all our limitations. The peak of the mountain top must be the only limit we must accept. That is the only true limit. Where else can one go after reaching the summit? The sky? Oh, yes, of course the sky is the limit.

Ciao!

Ro.

Drug Bust

March 6, my mother's birthday, 2013 started out as a chilly, but blindingly sunny, down coat day but by afternoon, ended up being a one layer deal. Such is the character of the fickle-minded lady called weather. My post-Sandy, repair and restore whatever you can mind-set had propelled me toward getting all the pent-up work around the house, in addition to the post-sandy work, also done, This was the reason for getting a room that had been neglected for a long time painted and spiffed up. One of the improvements to be made was getting a new carpet. The carpet installers were to come on the 7th. I knew that they would need a vacuum cleaner to vacuum the floor before re-carpeting it and then for vacuuming the new carpet. The self-propelling mechanism on my Hoover Upright was on the fritz and now it needed to be repaired urgently.

After some extensive research, I decided that it was worth getting the Hoover fixed rather than replacing it. I identified and called the authorized V&J repair shop in Rosedale and made an appointment for the 6^th morning. When I left for the shop with my vacuum I wore my down jacket and ski gloves to fight the freezing temperature outside. After I entrusting my sick vacuum with the owner Joe, when I came out of the store and walked toward my car I noticed a car with a handful of male passengers pull up on the wrong side of the road and a couple of men hop out. Instead of facing south on a south-bound lane, the car faced north. I was puzzled. Next thing, as I approached the street corner just a few steps away, I was face to face with a young, mustachioed, slightly built, African-American male and I heard the command "Hands up" from behind me. The man I was face-to-face with looked stunned. His hands going up, his saucer-eyed gaze was directed at the men behind me. I thought that this was some gang warfare and I was going to see bullets fly any second now, and I was going to get hit by one or more and that would be the end of me. My next thought was I must run for cover.  But which way do I run? Back toward the vacuum repair store or across the street and into another store? Where?  When might the bullets start flying? And from which direction will they come?

Just then, my eyes darted toward the cars parked close by on the side street. Almost grazing the guy in the corner who, eyebrows raised, stood speechless, I sprinted across and ducked behind a car even as the exchange between this young man and those who accosted him continued. But within a split second all was over. Gingerly, I raised my head from behind the car just enough to be able to get a grip on the latest situation. Things seemed to be under control.  Surrounded by those from the car on the wrong side of the road, the hunted down man looked trapped like a caged animal. Now I straightened up and tried gauging what my next move must be. Just then, pointing at me, one of the men from the car yelled, "Hey, you lady," even as his companion added, "she has nothing to do with him." Then he waved me away.

Heart pounding, as I resumed my stride toward my car, I saw the black guy being handcuffed by the plain clothes men who I presume were cops. Later that afternoon, when I returned to V&J, I shared this incident with the owner Joe. He responded that the corner was a favorite spot for drug peddlers. Other than that the area was supposedly safe. His store had been there for thirty years and there had never been any incident. I thanked my own lucky stars, collected my Hoover and returned home with the sunroof fully open and my down jacket on the passenger seat.

Ciao!

Brazil

Photos to be posted when time permits.

Sandy stopped by on October 29 and on the 26^th we had booked a ten-day trip to Brazil with Travelers Gone Wild (TWG). We were supposed to leave on November 25^th.  Well, the idea of cancelling it didn’t occur to us till the 9^th of November. Surrounded by uncertainty and mayhem, going away on a vacation seemed like the most ridiculous thing to do. On the other hand, some said that this this was the best time to take a break and recharge. Anyway, canceling the trip sounded like an expensive proposition. Just as I was contemplating what to do, I learned from my friends Janette and Bernie who also had been affected by Sandy as much as we had been, that they were going on a trip to Barcelona. This gave me courage to take my trip, too.  Also, on the 11^th our power was restored. Now, a small amount of optimism returned though we were still without heat or hot water. It occurred to me that the only item that had worked without fail during our entire ordeal was our cuckoo clock (referenced in one of my earlier posts) keeping up with the passage of time its tick-tocks intact. In light of Thanksgiving being on the 22^nd I felt that the oil company would make special efforts. So we did not cancel our trip to Brazil. On the 18^th, heat and hot water were restored. Thanksgiving was very special like a few other times before. In 2009, it was my father’s return from the ER after being accidentally discovered fighting for breath in his bedroom at 1 a.m. a few days earlier.  Eventually, he did pass away on December 25 on his 82^nd birthday. The cause was sudden cardiac arrest.

On the 25^th we flew out of JFK to Manaus, Brazil with a connection in Miami. We reached Manaus the same night. It was about a ten hour flight factoring in the two hour time difference. Manaus is ahead. AA did not provide our requested vegetarian meals for us as they don’t accommodate special meals on this flight. We came to know this a day before we left. So we had packed something.  At Miami Airport I was able to speak to a flight attendant who assured me some salad. He did manage to give us two pieces of lettuce, some shredded carrot and a piece of tomato and cucumber. He also managed to “steal” some goat cheese from first class.

We landed late at night in Manaus. It felt like any small airport in India. The smells and sights were similar too. The heat and humidity were palpable. I had changed into cotton clothing on the plane just before we landed in Miami right in my seat. Being a petite person I can pull off such tricks. There was only one Manaus Immigration Window open at the airport and he probably was a rookie. Though the line was short it seemed to take forever for it to move. We made friends with a young passenger traveling from Mexico. He was a frequent traveler to Brazil. Through the glass partition, seeing his luggage had been tampered with and taped up, he grumbled. Avoiding the leak in the ceiling and skirting around the small puddle on the floor we approached the window. By now, we could see our luggage on the nearby conveyor belt being taken off it by an airport employee. Once we were cleared by the immigration official, we collected our luggage and right outside was our driver displaying my full name on a placard. Luis introduced himself, took over our luggage cart, took us to the car and then drove us to our hotel.

It was November 25^th but the central square on the way was already decked up for Christmas. Brazil being a Catholic country the religious fervor was in greater display. The roads were quiet and bare. But there was no mistaking that we were in a tropical country. Palm trees and the famous acai trees lined the roads and so did large leafed tropical plants. For a second it felt like we were in paradise. What a stark contrast to the ordeal we had gone though in New York just a few weeks earlier the effect of which would still be there when we returned. But now was not the time to think about New York.  I was so glad that we didn’t cancel our trip.

"Tropical Manaus" was an expansive hotel and our large room with dark wood paneling had a view of the hotel’s garden. It was the dry season and so everything looked dry and brittle. Just a few months earlier I had read Ann Patchett’s, “State of Wonder” set in the Amazon. At that point, I had never imagined that one day, like its main characters, I too would be traversing the streets of Manaus. Since our focus was the river boat ride we did not get to go into town to check out the various places of interest like the famous opera house, etc. mentioned in the book. However, after a sumptuous buffet breakfast that included a variety of fruits, wraps, caramelized plantain (try not to binge) and acai goo which I could enjoy only with some caramelized plantain, and amazing Brazilian coffee at the hotel’s restaurant overlooking the adjacent shopping arcade, we did manage to visit the small intimately set zoo opened in 1976 on the hotel’s grounds. The cheerful guide, a biologist by training, who spoke only Portuguese but had a translator, was a font of information on the various animals and the plants and trees there. http://www.tropicalmanaus.com.br/sports-leisure-activities/index.cfm. An animal lover, I loved the experience. I even won a colorful macaw feather by correctly identifying one of the two species that coati, a native to Brazil, belonged to. Known for its intelligence, it was a cross between a racco0n and the panda. No way, one could have guessed its panda lineage. It must be the red variety panda. Later, we spotted the coatis several times in the Iguazu National Park. Signs all over the park warned visitors about them and advised you to hide your food. They are real cute and have no fear of humans.

We left the hotel by the Clipper boat at 2:30 on Monday the 26^th. A small canoe collected us at the beach and took us to the boat idling a few yards away. Earlier, while booking our trip, try as we did, we could not get a cabin in the higher-end Premium boat. It had been booked by a group of 32 Germans who we ran into while sailing down the river. Our smaller boat held only sixteen people and in some ways smaller was better. The one major thing missing on our boat was hot water. Then again, the temperature was in the 80s, and who needed a hot shower? In fact, I enjoyed the cold shower immensely. A rarity for me! Our boat was home to us along with a couple from Iowa, a couple from Wales, another couple from England, a father-son duo from Russia, an older couple from Argentina, an Indian female physician from Wales and her businessman brother from Bombay, India for the next two days. It was an amazing trip. In the early evening, when the sun was still shining,  we witnessed the “meeting of the rivers”(the dark Rio Negro and the silty Rio Amazon), an amazing sight to behold because the two rivers next to each other with no barrier whatsoever flowed side by side without really merging thus defying all laws of physics. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meeting_of_Waters.

The same night we communed with the nocturnal animals and birds and reptiles by foraging into the forest in the canoe escorted by our guide Luis a Peruvian married to a Brazilian and settled in Manaus. He seemed obsessive about finding those reclusive animals and showing them off to us. He did manage to catch a baby caiman and bring it around. I hated this exercise. I snuck my face behind B’s back when the creature was brought close to my face. I don’t love animals that much. Actually, I find the lizard family quite repulsive.

Eventually, when we returned to the boat, a hearty meal cooked by the kitchen staff—two women and two men—awaited us. It was amazingly delicious. In fact, the first thing we tasted was an amazing soup with lots of vegetable soon after our embarkation in the afternoon. On the middle deck, which is where the small bar lined with a shelf of books, mostly Portuguese, was and where we took our meals, hung a long half-ripe banana bunch and we could help ourselves to it as much as we wanted. This to me represented the abundance of the Amazon and reminded me of south India as well.

We retired for the night and this was my first time in a bunk bed other than when I had traveled on train. Next morning, we went back to the forest, again in the canoe, to observe the daytime activity of the animals and the birds. A pair of binoculars lent by Luis came in handy. A blanket of egrets and vultures and a few cormorants and other birds cut across the canal accompanied by a cacophony of bird song. Ann was keen on finding a sloth that morning and our guide was going to leave no tree alone. He eventually found one, cut down the branch where the sloth was hanging upside down peacefully and brought the poor animal down for us to hold and behold. Ann who had accompanied him to the bank was ecstatic and all teeth. She was probably in her 20’s or early 30’s and so one had to indulge her. She and her husband was actually, a delightful couple.

The kohl-eyed sloth looked petrified though with a long-drawn fake smile on its face and was eventually returned to his habitat. The colorful homes lining the banks were on stilts way on top of the hilly terrain and sported interesting architecture with wrap around porches. The windows had no doors. Our guide pointed out the water mark on those homes left by the rising river during the wet season that runs from January through June.

Later that morning, some passengers went fishing for piranhas. I skipped it. In the evening, we climbed a steep hillside and went to a sleepy little village on the bank where life seemed to have stood still. A few barefoot, cherubic looking children greeted us with a ready smile and our guide who seemed to know them greeted them back. We stood under a canopy of mango and acai and white gourd and guava trees. The view of the river was breathtaking. The first thing the guide mentioned was the high child mortality rate in the village. As proof, momentarily, a cemetery sporting plastic flowers and small dirt mounds came into view. As we walked on, a few simple dwellings on stilts with cutout windows with their inhabitants spilling out onto the outside lined the high plain. Children were being cuddled, toothless grandmothers displayed indifference to us and a parrot was being displayed on a stick by a young female resident. People took turns getting photographed with the parrot. Ann bought a painting by one of the homeowners. It was a village scene. The two jumping fish in it in the foreground were over sized. The owner took the painting off its frame and rolled it up and gave it to Ann who was all teeth again. A real sweet gal! If I could have taken back home her and her husband as souvenir I would have.

 

We discovered lemon grass in a garden and crushing it between our fingers and smelling it and swooning over its sooting fragrance, we walked through the village. Youngsters in uniforms were returning from school, men in their early 20’s roared by in their motor bikes and little girls and boys ran along flashing a smile at us. We came upon a little store that sold beer. It was not that hot anymore except for that first night experience at Manaus airport and the first day’s heat spell on the boat, which actually cooled down after a downpour, still a chilled beer was welcomed by many.  Soon we came upon a vocational school, a nice building where several students were sitting on the parapet wall and chatting away. Our guide informed us of the efforts by Brazil’s earlier socialist president Lula da Silva to bring electricity and education to these isolated villages. The school ran three shifts. It was designed also to accommodate older children who worked during the day.
 

When we returned to the boat, freshened up and went up to the top deck to relax, it was pitch dark, all was still and across the Amazon the village we had visited earlier displayed electric lights but was soon plunged into darkness. An errant motor boat flitted by. An old romantic tune graced my lips and I extended my arm to B. Everything seemed perfect with the world, at least mine.

The next morning we went out in the canoe to see the pink dolphins, a specialty of the area. The sunrise was spectacular and the fishermen beneath made it a National Geographic moment. B captured the scene in several shots in his camera. The pink dolphins put on a show as well. Then we left for a trip into the jungle to experience the Amazon’s verdant grounds. I had been duly impressed by the Red Woods in Muir Woods in California nonetheless, this experience in the wild was no less important. Luis explained to us the various trees lingering more in front of the giant sandbox trees. The shallow cutout-like pit in the tree trunk could have served as shelter. Luis once again pointed out the high water marks from the Amazon’s last flooding, and the previous ones. It was raining and though I had a raincoat on, I was wearing open sandals, a dumb move. Then again, Luis wore only a pair of flip flops. I picked up a tree branch and used it as a prop while walking. In fact, at one point, I felt something very sharp like a piece of broken glass, pierce my skin under my big toe. I had no idea what it was but managed to walk in such a way I didn’t feel the pain. Later, once I was back in the boat, I realized that what was causing my misery was two pieces of thorn. Ann lent me a safety pin and B a meticulous person gently removed the thorn. I felt grateful like the lion in Androcles and the Lion. 

Once we returned to the boat we embarked on our return journey to Manaus. That afternoon at 3:30 p.m. was our flight to Rio de Janeiro. It was a six-hour journey. Rio was one hour ahead of Manaus. It was past ten when we got to our hotel Augusto’s Rio Copa, two blocks from the famous Copacabana Beach. The first night our room was on the street side though on the 12^th floor. Upon my request, the next three nights were on the back side of the hotel. The view was that of the mountain and an office building and some apartments not as interesting as the front side but during travel particularly, a good night’s sleep is extremely important.  After experiencing a sleepless night in Athens many years ago in a first floor hotel room across from the parliament, I had decided that street side was never a good idea no matter how high the floor. The first night at Rio Copa I had no choice. Luckily, I still managed to have a good night’s sleep.

The next day, after a delayed start, we went by bus to Petropolis “the imperial city” about 40 miles from Rio. It was a day trip and it was picture perfect day http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Petr%C3%B3polis. We were told that till the previous day it was pouring in Rio. On the way to Petropolis, in a little souvenir shop across from a car dealer and an industrial patch lined with some rural repair shops,we had the most delicious hot chocolate, the dark cocoa used being rich and  pure. Later, in the imperial museum, which used to be a palace at one time, we had to wear a pair of clumsy, over sized slippers which allowed you to only shuffle. This was very annoying and so I decided to take them off after a point.  

The royal jewelry collection in the museum was stunning but the fact that some of the heavy gold jewelry on display was worn by the slaves to model them sounded a bit perverse. At one time, Brazil was home to the largest slave population and was the last nation in the western world to abolish slavery. Petropolis was a grand mountain town with some beautiful Norman-French architecture as seen on Palácio Quitandinha the second largest hotel in Brazil and home to the famous Alcantara Cathedral  http://gobrazil.about.com/od/braziliancities/ss/petropoliscathedral.htm. That night we walked over (I needed a sweat shirt as it was a bit nippy a total contrast to the 29 degree centigrade temperature during the day) to the Copacabana beach and had dinner accompanied by cold beer at a kiosk on the beach. Toward the end of our leisurely stroll back home, as we stopped and photographed the a few night scenes of Rio, including stacks of coconuts outside a kiosk,and the full moon in the sky, I spotted a churro vendor and had the most amazing hot caramel filled churro. I can still taste it in my mouth

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Next day was the tour of the old Rio--to which we returned the next day on our own by the Metro and walked around--and of the Sugar Loaf Mountain and Christ the Redeemer where the crowd was crushing. The return trip by the cog rail from here was at the end of one of the longest waits for me ever. The scenery was breathtaking and the shopping was seductive. I found some exquisite quartz pieces at the Amsterdam Sauer, a must see place. Buy a piece or two if you can afford them (actually, the prices are quite fair).  At their Ipanema location, there is a gem museum with a gemologist for a guide as well as a faux mining shaft. I did fall in love with a macaw made of jasper but it was too heavy for me to carry back and forth in my carryon between Rio and Iguazu. So, I decided to look for one like that in the Iguazu showroom but the pieces there lacked refinement. Eventually, I bought a smaller size macaw made of crystal quartz in Iguazu at a mercantile shop just before we caught our flight back to Rio on December 4.

At Sugar Loaf, a photographer's dream perch, dressed in white from head to toe, Pat from Australia wanted pictures of her taken in various cute poses as if her pictures were being sent to a military camp in a far away place to cheer up the soldiers. Oval-faced, she was attractive, friendly and probably in her 40's. She felt compelled to explain her various Claudette Colbert poses. They were to make her boyfriend feel jealous and realize how stupid he was to skip this trip.

After we returned to our hotel room, we freshened up and walked over through a tunnel flanked by mountains to the Rio sul mall close to our hotel and had dinner at a nice restaurant. The mall had several restaurants and was a real lively place. A large beautifully decorated Christmas tree was on display and a car parked beneath it was being raffled away. Fake life sized elephants and lions and monkeys dotted the Christmas scene. After dinner, we took a cab to the Samba show in town. It was entertaining though a bit overloaded with Carnivale costumes and bare buttocks.

On December 1, our last full day in Rio, for lack of enough tourists, our half day tour of the old city was canceled. So, we went on our own on the Metro and walked around the old town and also returned to Mahatma Gandhi Park displaying a large, full length statue of Gandhi in walking posture with stick in hand, which the tour guide had pointed out to us from the bus on the previous day. It was a hot day, and the caramel ice cream we had at a local McDonald’s was a welcome relief.  We also chanced upon a tented open air market where vendors sold their wares. Like in most places of the world, the colonial architecture was a show stopper. Later that night, we went back to the Rio sul Mall along with Barbara and Frank, a lively older couple from Nottingham, England. It was a pleasant dinner particularly for Barbara whose idea of eating in a mall was fare from a food court whose atmosphere she detested. The sit down dinner waited on by courteous waiters was a nice surprise to her. We didn’t linger much in the mall but returned to the hotel but not before seeking out the churro vendor. I died and went to heaven once again. This was Barbara and Frank’s first experience with churro. My first had been about 20 years ago in San Diego. Next morning, we sat together at breakfast like we had done the previous day and reminisced about our trip and shared our plans after leaving Rio. We were headed to Iguazu and Barbara and Frank were headed to a friend’s cottage a few miles northwest on the coast for a week of R&R and then back to England.

Around 8:30 a.m. the car arranged by TGW took us to Rio International for our flight to Iguazu. As we approached the city, the pilot pointed out the Falls (one of the world’s seven natural wonders) to us which looked unremarkable from that height. A pleasant young and well-spoken Luis (no idea why we met three Luises on our trip) picked us up from the airport and deposited at the Recanto Park Hotel our home for the next two nights. Though a beautiful hotel in a tropical setting just off the main street, I still felt it was a bit off the beaten track, meaning there was nothing within walking distance. Even to get a simple meal we had to take a cab to the mall about five kilometers away. The following two mornings we were at the hotel, we did have a sumptuous breakfast fit for royals. Soon after we checked in, it poured but soon turned sunny. We spent the afternoon in the hotel swimming pool (I bought a swim suit that doubles up as an evening wear over a pair of trousers) and the outdoor bar under a tent enjoying some beer, and some ice cream. I nearly drowned in the 5 foot swimming pool. From then on, I decided to enjoy the expansive double Jacuzzi in our bathroom and forget about the pool which was B's first pick.

The next day Luis, who was training to be a corporate helicopter pilot one day, showed up bright and early at 8 a.m. and we were in Argentina within an hour (on our final day we saw the Falls from the Brazilian side). The Iguazu National Park opened at 9 a.m. and we were two of the first wave of tourists. Luis got our entrance tickets for us and we took a rail to get to the entrance to the falls (a collection 275 separate falls, the Devil’s Throat being the tallest and the largest). This is where we saw quite a few coatis helping themselves to food crumbs on the ground only they could detect. Later, we spotted them at the restaurant, too. We crossed several little bridges to get close to the falls, which you see only you are absolutely close. Once you are there, the experience is so awesome I actually got emotional. The gurgling devil’s throat would love to gobble up you if you’d allow it to. http://www.world-of-waterfalls.com/latin-america-iguazu-falls-which-side-is-better.html. We experienced the falls from different levels and from different angles. Eventually, a tour boat took us as close to one of the falls as was allowed to be literally thrashed by a million buckets of water. The falls, the result of a volcano in the area, apparently, have been around for the last 120 million years! It was amazing to see people who have had heart surgeries walk over the bridges walking stick in hand to get a glimpse of the falls from various points. One of the highlights of the walkways was the presence of multitude butterflies of all patterns and hues who land all over you.

That night we had a buffet dinner again fit for royalty in the large glassed-in dining room the stars in the sky peering in. Even as vegetarians we had plenty of choices. One thing about Brazil is no matter what, one had to buy water. No water fountains to be found anywhere. This bothered me a lot. Just to get even, earlier, I opened my mouth when we were thrashed by the water from the falls. Then I checked with the boatman if the water was okay to drink. He said, no. Well, too bad.

Next morning was our second and final trip back to the falls, this time to enjoy it from the Brazilian side. We were very early and so could avoid the crushing crowds. There was a large group of Koreans and we were advised by Luis to stay in front of them while trekking. This was good advice. It was a noisy bunch. Once again, the falls were a near-spiritual experience.

It was close to noon and our flight to Rio was at 3:30. We decided to swing by the bird park http://gobrazil.about.com/gi/o.htm?zi=1/XJ&zTi=1&sdn=gobrazil&cdn=travel&tm=37&f=11&su=p284.13.342.ip_&tt=3&bt=1&bts=1&zu=http%3A//www.parquedasaves.com.br/v2/index.htm and this was probably the highlight of my trip. It is a must see place. It took us about an hour plus to go through the park in a leisurely way. We could have spent more time but the park closed between one and 2:30. After the park visit, we swung by the mercantile shop to pick out that one single quartz macaw from among thousands of them. Here, Luis who was of German and Italian descent introduced us to his Japanese sister-in-law who worked in the jewelry department. I am the kind of person I make everybody my family instantly, especially strangers, and with respect to Luis with whom we had spent two plus days, I felt sad parting company at the airport. He said that when he got his helicopter pilot license, he would fly me over the falls. Yeah right, I thought.  He was a goal-oriented, warm guy with a girlfriend whom he intended to marry after he was set in his career. He was probably in his late 20’s, early 30’s.

We spent nearly five hours at the Rio airport. Our flight back to JFK was quite late at night. Airports can be interesting places. We had some pizza. Actually, only the top. The crust was like cardboard.

Next morning around 6 a.m., all bundled up to brave the drop in temperature we were back at JFK. Welcome back to reality. Our first stop after returning home was the laundromat. Thanks to Sandy, we could not replace our ruined washer and dryer till mid-January. Anyway, life is what we make of it. You can be indifferent to its surprises and carry on as if it is a permanent box of chocolates.  

Ciao!