I find that I enjoy reading about and seeing the mechanics of the travels of others, sometimes moreso than about their experiences of the destination (which I always want to just check out myself). I think that’s part of why I so thoroughly enjoy sites like Flyertalk and Gridskipper. My latest contribution to the conversation is here.
Category: Personal Page 58 of 59
I recently had an opportunity to take a hastily-planned trip to India (among other places) over the past few weeks. I’m back now, and have uploaded some of the pictures I snapped along the way, if anyone is interested. You can find them here.
Starting in Delhi, I did the “Golden Triangle” of Delhi, Agra, and Jaipur. My time in Delhi was spent mostly in “Old Delhi”, around the Chandni Chowk and Jama Masid. 
Among the many things I learned is where all of our old college textbooks went to die, that street cooked dosas are most excellent, and that I should never ever complain about DC traffic again. The hotel was the Maurya Sheraton, which was quite nice, but sort of in the middle of nowhere. Its most recent claim to fame was hosting Bill.
With a car and driver, I then headed down to Agra. It was on this trip that I learned that insane drivers and awful roads aren’t particular to Delhi, but rather part of the national character. Speaking as someone who has traveled and driven all over the world, there is no way I would ever ever get behind the wheel of a car in India. Agra is home to the Taj Mahal, which is not to be missed. 
I’ve never come across a tourist attraction that so easily surpassed its hype. It was breathtaking.
Speaking of hype (another part of the national character, I submit), the rest of Agra lived up to its billing as a world capital for touts and charlatans and rug sellers. Didn’t particularly regret staying at the Mughal Sheraton, rather than downtown. (Side note: for your future planning purposes, international Sheratons are not the crap hotels that US Sheratons are.)
On the way to Jaipur, and on the recommendation of a number of friends
, I stopped at Fatehpur Sikri. The once and brief capital of the mughal empire, the palace was a very interesting manifestation of Emperor Akbar‘s openness to the major faiths (tho’ one wonders whether this was the result or the cause of his having wives from each of them). Driving in and out of here, I experienced the rather unexpected phenomena of would-be guides actually jumping in front of the car to get us to stop and hire them as a guide. You just ran down my car, scaring me half to death, and now you want me to pay you to spend time with me? Sure.
Many (many) hours later, I ended the day in Jaipur, the “pink city” (the result of a promotional hospitality effort that’s lasted nearly 100 years now . . .). After congested Delhi, and hazy Agra, Jaipur was literally a breath of fresh air (this despite many of the streets being full of elephants). My guide here, Khiraz, was a remarkably overeducated fellow with a love for Jaipur that was infectious. 
He was also curiously into astrology, which set off a rambling debate that took place between seeing the sights of the Hawa Mahal (nifty), Jal Mahal (it’s good to be king – build the palace and then flood the valley – just because you can!), and catching a glimpse of Bollywood star Aishwarya Rai shortly after she filmed a segment nearby (an excitement that was completely lost on me, I’m afraid).
Home base in Jaipur was Alsisar Haveli, which I recommend to anyone passing through in the future. It’s a very nicely converted heritage property. If you’re feeling spendy, stay at Rambagh Palace. I spent my last afternoon there, sitting under a lazily spinning fan on a terrace overlooking the polo fields, martini in hand. Could have done that for a week.
I left Jaipur for Mumbai on Jet Airways. Jet Airways, on this flight at least, put most US domestic carriers to shame. Quick seating, plenty of room, and a hot meal, all for a 90 minute flight at a reasonable price. And speaking of 90 minutes, 88 of them were taken up by the woman sitting to my right. She and her daughter had just come back from a couple of weeks in Pushkar. She was only a couple of years older than me, and the conversation started out very well. It morphed, however, into her telling me how, in 2011, something was going to happen to the world where everyone gave their material possessions away and everyone would live on love. That and the US was a hateful place that should be abandoned. These were the reasons she gave in trying to convince me that I should go to Nepal and meditate for a couple of months instead of heading back to DC. Just trust that things would turn out okay, she said. A bit of googling once I’d arrived in Mumbai revealed her trust-fund kid status. Dad founded one of the biggest private equity firms around. Still, she seemed a decent, if not entirely well grounded, person, and the thought of a couple of months in Nepal did appeal. But as you can see, I’m here now. For the time being, anyway.
But back to India. Specifically, Mumbai. Or is it Bombay? I’ve not decided where I stand on the matter, yet. I wasn’t in Mumbai long. Just enough to poke around a bit, checking out Colaba, Chowpatty Beach, and the markets in the Fort and Churchgate areas. One unexpected pleasure was getting into the High Court, situated in a massive Victorian-era stone building complex (where, according to the Lonely Planet book, one of the high-up carvings is of a one-eyed monkey holding the scales of justice). After assuring the 17 security guards that stopped me (only white guy in the entire building) that I would not take any pictures, I found a few interesting courtrooms, and listened to a contract dispute case, an appeal of a zoning fine, and some criminal motions (by far the most amusing)). On the way out, I got of a glimpse of the public defenders office. It was straight out of Dickens. I am fairly sure that some of the open case files in there involved prosecutions brought on behalf of Queen Victoria.
After all this travel, Mumbai was the first place where I’d managed to work up some blisters, so at the end of the day, I just wanted to sit down and have a drink. Taking a friend’s recommendation, I’d booked a late table at Indigo. This is Indigo. Now, I give this link to point out that I’m not heading to some shabeen in a basement. I get there, sit down, and order my standard. Martini, Grey Goose, up with a twist. Very nice wait staff whisks away with my order. And a few minutes later another waiter comes up. Turns out he’s the bartender.
“You want a martini?”
Yes, Grey Goose, please.
“No no. Too expensive.”
What?
“Grey Goose. Too expensive for martini.”
You’re kidding, right?
“Stolichnya, instead.”
Umm, no. Seriously. I don’t care how much it is.
“Too expensive.”
Dude. (I am embarrassed at the use of the word dude, but I’m a little surprised that I am having to fight to pay them too much money for a drink) Are you really telling me you won’t let me buy a Grey Goose martini? Just make me a martini with Grey Goose. I do not care how much it is.
He looks at me as if I just asked for the golden fleece to use as a napkin. I get my martini. Properly made. It is $12.
~
The next day, I fly to Dubai. Highlights from there (one of the best bar views in the world, construction sites creating a distopian anime-looking world, and underemployed Russian hookers) and points further in a future entry. I should probably devote some time and energy to making a living for a little while, now.
Two historic events occured during my trip to the island of Hawai’i 22 years ago (from Oahu, where we lived) – the introduction of Chicken McNuggets and the start of Kilauea’s now 22 year eruption. Funny, the events that turn into markers.
Within days of tipping over and exposing its roots to the world above ground, my neighbor’s maple tree has gone leave-crumbling crispy. Something that had been huge and strong and green and alive turned into something broken and splintered and fragile and dead.
Without its familiar roots burrowing into the same ground and soaking in the same water it has for the past forty years, it is nothing. It couldn’t find another way to take water, or hold on until someone could right it. It simply had no mechanism for adapting to its new circumstances. It is dead.
That’s why I always thought those “What kind of tree would you be?” questions didn’t make much sense – what kind of tree would I be? I wouldn’t – I’d have been dead decades ago.
It seems to be done now – as I wrote those words, the sun came out. Perhaps My Run of Bad Luck is over.
Around our neighborhood, in fact, there was mostly very good luck. Only a few big trees went down, and it looks like minimal property damage.
Excellent luck at this address – at worst the electricity flickered last night, and a fair-sized limb dropped onto the back roof. Otherwise, it was just a great evening to watch the forces of nature in action.
Apparently I’m an exception, though, as the rest of the metro area didn’t do so well. There are millions of homes without power, and the water supply in Fairfax County (suburban Virginia) was contaminated after the treatment plants lost electricity (no back-up generators, apparently). Alexandria, as usual, is swimming in floodwater.
~
While I think that emergency planning is always a good idea, I think that OPM and WMATA overreacted a bit. The Federal government really didn’t need to close for the full day yesterday, and today I drove downtown with little trouble. On the other hand, erring on the side of safety makes sense. I’m just not sure whether an error of that magnitude was justified.
(Edited to say: It was. Completely. If for no other reason than you really didn’t want to squeeze millions of people who had not had a shower for a day or two into office buildings the next day . . .. The streets of Arlington and downtown DC were filled with thousands of people looking for something to do last night, and there were quite a few you didn’t want to get too close to.
~
I went for a walk around the neighborhood early this morning, to see what had happened. Mostly branches and limbs everywhere, but one street was blocked by a tree, and another tree will make some new homeowners quite upset. A giant maple (at least 70 foot) took out their deck and detached garage. The house was just bought a week ago. Ouch.
I rode the Custis and Washington & Old Dominion (“WOD”) trails today. For the first time this year.
It felt like it.
Nothing felt like it did when I rode it daily. Or looked it.
My pace, from the beginning, was cut by 2/3rds.
I cannot attack a hill anymore. Rather, I repeat to myself the admonition I drive my new-to-cycling friends crazy with – “use your gears!” And slowly, but surely, I make my way up the hills at 5-10 mph.
The uniforms at the day school have changed.
The soccer fields near the Turn-Where-The-Cyclist-Sued-The-County appear to be turning into tennis courts.
One of the many floods that happen regularly along the Custis finally took out some of the older trees along the stream banks.
I ride so slowly I am actually passed by a runner. I think I hate him.
There are now some paths around the far side of the couple of the giant light pole bases. Before, they narrowed the path against the freeway retaining wall. Now you no longer have to cringe and wish yourself skinnier when you pass oncoming trail traffic.
I am not tempted to cut through the Brandymore Castle hill woods, which is riddled with single-track trail.
There are no children on the soccer field in Benjamin Banneker Park.
The Masonic Lodge has erected a new memorial along the trail, near the spot where I once nearly caused an awful collision through my own lack of control of my new road bike.
Mile 5 brings a pain to my right knee that slows me down to little more than a walking pace. Mile 5 is usually the end of my warm up.
The raspberry bushes have no raspberries.
The “fitness station” equipment along the Falls Church section of the WOD has been painted blue.
I have to sit for a long while at my turnaround point in West Falls Church.
The Bluemont Junction Trail is finally open.
And catching the light just right at the bottom of the hill so that I can use the speed to get up the other side is no longer a convenience, but a necessity.
But not everything was different-
Taking the lane in traffic does not bother me, though I expected it to.
I can still hit 28 mph on the first hill.
I still do not cringe at the site of my worst bike accident ever, where I slammed into a concrete wall at speed.
Groups of retired Marines still run in packs during the day. They understand “on your left!”
The air is still cooler under the bridges (and will be warmer in the winter).
The firemen are still grilling outside of the fire station.
I can still use clipless shoes and pedals.
The water fountains are still working.
Other riders on mountain bikes still nod uniformly, and those on road bikes just as predictably blow by without a sign of acknowledgment.
My bell still rings loudly.
The length from my entry onto Wilson Boulevard near Bluemont until I arrive home is still the perfect cooldown ride.
And best of all, I still got the same feeling I’ve had at the end of every ride since I first tried these trails in 1997 – I feel that I am better for it.
So I guess things weren’t all that different. It will all come back to me soon enough.
Just like riding a bike, really.
Specifically, I am afraid of moving. Of things that move.
Mostly it is just things that move too quickly. Or might require that I get out of the way on short notice.
I haven’t always been like this. Or really ever been like this. The physical world has never scared me. As a kid, anyone could point me at a ramp and I’d run my bike off of it. I was never really very good at it, but I loved skating and poured myself into it (and there is nothing like dropping into a 10 ft. half pipe to teach you about the importance of committment . . .). In recent years I’ve picked up the pace of my mountain biking, become more adventurous with my skiing, and had even planned to try skydiving this year.
I was not afraid. I thrilled to these things. The physical risks and pleasures. I ‘ve slammed into concrete walls and picked myself up and finished a ride. I’ve gone head over heels off of a bridge and into a gulch, only to laugh about it the rest of the day. Part of the fun was the risk. The possibility that things just might go wrong.
No more.
I am now afraid even when I am just walking. I worry that I cannot get out of the road quick enough. I fear that I will stumble in a crowd of kids. I am convinced that I cannot make it down a stairway without holding tight to the railing. A life that had no physical fear is now full of it.
This has to change. Yesterday I finally found it within myself to get back on my mountain bike. I pulled it out a week ago. Cleaned and lubed it. Pumped the tires. Adjusted just right for service as a pavement bike. Ready for me. Ready to double the 3000 miles I put on it in the past few years (but not a single mile yet this year). So I pulled it out onto the street and got on the bike.
And was terrified. Just sitting there. What if I have to stop short? What if I need my right leg? What if I push it too hard?
Answers to these questions could only be learned by testing them. So off I went. And for 2.29 scary miles around the neighborhood, I learned no answers to those questions.
But I did learn that it is possible to go 2.29 miles on a bike.
I am still afraid. Very.
But maybe – just maybe – a little less so.
