Home Sweet Home

More like an inferno! Was it always this hot? It’s not like we are flying in from the North Pole, we were in Spain, we were melting there, how can it be that much hotter here, now? Well it’s not really the heat alone. I mean it’s hot, it’s very hot, but that’s not what is driving me nuts. It’s the humidity!!! Sweating, itching, sticky. And poor Nisarga, he likes humidity; so he can’t understand why I’m so irritable and stand offish when he is trying to hug me or caress me. AAAAAA… “don’t touch me!!!”

I’m going to kill someone! Maybe everyone! Definitely many! Nisarga is left unphased. Maybe because he spends both days we are in Delhi mostly sleeping. Thank goodness we only have to spend one night in Delhi. How did I do this for 4 summers? Oh yes, I had a job! Which meant I was in AC during peak heat hours, which are basically 9 to 5… how convenient! I feel like I can’t breathe in this air. And it’s not just the humidity, it’s the pollution, the noise, the sardines in a can feeling with so many people and animals, and almost no sidewalks, fighting, pushing and shoving to make their way from A to B.

I’m reminded, at my core, why I vowed not to spend another summer in India again. The monsoon is romanticized and while there are always the hills to escape to, there it is also pouring! When it’s raining the streets flood (there are no drains or underground sewage systems in Delhi) and become rivers carrying along with them all kinds of organic and non-organic waste. The mosquitoes, the humidity, the mould on everything, nothing dries, the smell of mildew throughout, a stinky, dirty sauna! Don’t get me wrong people, if you feel like visiting please do come to India, just don’t come to Delhi between April and September.

So nearly 3 months later, and over 5 kilos heavier (11 pounds) heavier (no, I don’t mean my backpack I mean my hips!), I am definitely back home, in India. Actually, this is the first time in 4.5 years that I have been out of India this long! The longest time before was 3 weeks. And while I was here working, for the first 3.5 years, I only went to the West twice. I didn’t have any visa requirements to leave and re-enter every 6 months the way I do now that I’m on a tourist visa, because I was here on diplomatic status. I remember making the mistake once of not leaving mother India’s arms for 18 months! The last 3 of those 18 months were May, June and July and that’s the last time I remember wanting to kill everyone in sight… those were tough, hot and sticky months. Leaving every 6 months is a much saner, healthier strategy.

At 1730 on the 29th we board an overnight bus for the state of Himachal Pradesh, in the Himalayas. I’m soooo grateful!

Disclosure: the fine print

So you’ve been reading all these entries of our travels and experiences. There has been sarcasm and joking and fun. We have painted quite a rosey picture. But this could not possibly be the complete picture.

There have been misunderstandings, absolutely non understandings, frustration, tears, yelling, walking away from each other, sleeping on separate beds, ego trips, poor me trips, and everything in between. Afterall, we got together during a tantra workshop and have been attached at the hip ever since, except for the time I was in the US visiting family, and Nisarga was in the UK and Poland.

So basically we decided we wanted to be together and started living together. Of course, living together without a house in particular. Nevertheless, living together. And getting to know someone while you travel together, while you live together, well… there are less intense strategies of course. Having said that, and having decided not to air our dirty laundry on the street as we say in the US, we’ve done damn well for ourselves! And I can honestly say, for all his ego, his fears, his insecurities, I feel like the luckiest woman in the world to be with Nisarga. I think he likes me too.

We challenge each other, we inspire one another, we respect each other, we love each other, and we support each other. We agree that we are better people as a result of being together. So for now, we’ll just keep doing that, tears, laughter, screaming and all, and continue to grow.

stuff, stuff and more stuff...

(this replaces, and expands on, the previous blog entry titled "stuff")

Internal stuff, external stuff, my stuff, your stuff, group stuff… there’s all kinds of stuff. I guess, in a way, what we are really doing through these journeys is looking at a lot of stuff, and trying to let go of some stuff, and become open to some other stuff. Funny word this English word “stuff”. Because it can mean so many different things. Many of them, most perhaps, are attachments. Emotional, physical, psychological attachments… to stuff.

Lets rewind a bit. So you can imagine that after 5 months of workshops (in case anyone is interested: gurdjieff sufi camp with akash, vipassana 10 day sitting, osho’s mystic rose, contact dance improvisation, the art of living and dying, tantra, and the mystery of love), I was feeling pretty relaxed (filled with love and joy and tranquillity, open, flowing – yes, hippied out). So what does the universe decide to do? (Yes, I will continue to refer to the universe and existence as if they are my next door neighbours.) It throws Nisarga my way full force. Now Nisarga and I met for the first time in March during Mystic Rose. But it was only by the end of May that we decided we didn’t want to say goodbye just yet and let fate and the winds of change blow us back together some day in some life time some where. Ok, this is a no-brainer. Because we have a lot in common and are on very similar paths and we are attracted to each other so it makes since we want to continue being together.

But then this crazy Nisarga kid makes a proposition. Why don’t we get an Enfield, put our bags on it, hop on, and drive around India, travelling and doing different workshops. Of course with stars in my eyes, the sun in my heart, and the moon further south, totally blissed out on a meditation high, I’m like putty in his hands. I have no recollection right now what my initial response was, but I know I didn’t say no. As the idea started to sink in more and more, I got more and more scared. Scared shitless actually. I remember my heart racing, my body trembling (no, not convulsions I’m not that dramatic), putting my hands in front of my face to cover my eyes and going under the covers and screaming, laughing and kicking. This fear was triggering something very basic in me. I felt like a little kid, totally, wanting to go on a rollercoaster but at the same time being too scared to get on or too scared of what my mother would say if she found out, but at the same time laughing at myself. (this actually never happened in my childhood but this is the example that comes to me right now.)

Ok, so I tried to bring myself to awareness and remember that I took sannyas in March and made an internal commitment to myself to look within. So what about this fear? Fear of letting go of comfort zones, of security blankets, of not burning bridges just in case. Sure I had quit my job, sure I was pursuing something totally different then anything I had done before, sure I was participating in challenging processes, and yet I was still holding on to an apartment in Delhi. Why? Because my over 50 pairs of shoes need a resting place damn it! Because I have never not had a base. Because I had always said I was not one of those people who could just go backpacking for months or years on end. Because I wanted to know I could have a place to call home. Because I wanted to know there was somewhere familiar and safe I could run to if I needed to, if I wanted to, any time I wanted to, for any reason. Because this was my security blanket. It was familiar, comfortable, and safe. And here’s this crazy kid Nisarga telling me to let go! What? Madness!

Ok, ok, ok, I tried again to bring myself back to awareness. And I realised, yes this is a perfectly reasonable and healthy thing to have, an apartment, somewhere to call home. However, if this is a time of breaking patterns and comfort zones for me, and I’m taking a lot of time, effort, and money to do it, and I don’t have to worry about a family, then why not at least try, just try, to push the boundary a bit further. If not now then when? Aaaahhhhh! I think I screamed some more at that point.

In an effort to inspire me, Nisarga got impulsive. Actually, he loves to get impulsive, just as much as he loves worrying about planning things out and all. Two sides to the same coin. He had this watch that beeped every 30 minutes. Now this drove me nuts. Here I was trying to enter timeless-ness and there is this beep to remind me that 30 minutes have gone by. I asked him to turn it off but he couldn’t figure out how. So as we are having one of these conversations of me letting go, and I’m screaming and hiding under the covers, the watch goes beeeeeep. I had threatened earlier to burn it. So what does he do? In an effort to inspire me, and to prove that detachment can feel great, and that giving away things you love makes you feel wonderful, and that letting go makes you feel lighter, blah blah blah, he looks at me and says: “lets burn it!” He sets up two glass cups on the balcony, a lit candle underneath, and suspends the watch between the glasses and above the candle. I tell him to close the door, because of the fumes and because something mechanical like that might have parts that pop under flame, and we watch from the other side of the window. There are dramatic pictures of this but we can’t seem to find them. Anyway, so the watch starts to melt and drip until it puts out the flame. He picks up the watch and throws it in the garbage bin in our room. My mouth has dropped to the floor. I’m thinking this kid really is a nut case! I’m way beyond my league here! A few minutes later… it goes beeeeeep. That thing is durable. Now the drama shifts in Nisarga’s camp, to how he should have given it as a gift to someone instead of destroying it, and how he spent I don’t know how much on it. By the way, just today he said, and I quote, “I miss that watch”; so much for letting go!

Ok, back to my drama. It actually took a couple of days to stop freaking out about it. And then I said yes. Yes to this crazy challenge (crazy according to me; Nisarga had already done this to his life several months back) that existence threw my way, Nisarga being the post-man. I felt like I had just said “I do”. And then what? What happens after the honey-moon?

Well, I headed back to Delhi at the end of May and reduced my shoe count to just under 30, major progress I’d say. I went through all my clothes and gave some away. Basically I did a bit of an external spring cleaning to match my internal spring cleaning. I went to the US, then we vacationed (vacation from our vacation!) for 7 weeks, and so (fast-forward) here I am. With an expensive backpack that is supposedly top of the line filled to the rim; so much that every time I had to put it on in Spain Nisarga had to pick it up and put it on me. My mother, who during every visit offers to trade in my beat-up luggage for something new which will make my travel that much more comfortable, took me to the airport with this pack and she said it broke her heart to see her daughter carrying half her weight on her back… after all, why? She’s right of course.

Ok, so here comes reality, slowly. I have returned to a place I know, a country that has been my home for almost 5 years now, but to not having a home. I haven’t officially let go of my apartment yet but I’m not staying there, I just need to go and pack it up and transfer the lease and sell whatever needs to be sold. Seeing my friends and reassuring them I’ll be close by, yet feeling far already.

“But where are you moving to?” I’m asked. “Nowhere”, I respond. “What do you mean no where?” comes the reply. “I’m moving out of Delhi, but I’m not moving into anywhere in particular, I’m not leaving India, I’m just not going to be based in one place anymore.” Maybe it’s hard to explain because I don’t even get it yet. Of course it’s also hard to explain because most people haven’t experienced it so it’s hard to understand in the first place.

While I am managing to let go having an apartment, I must admit, my attachment to my clothes, shoes, books and DVDs has not diminished much. It will all go into storage in my friend’s mother’s basement in Delhi, and as for now, I’m holding on to the idea that I can access it whenever I want and don’t have to let go of any of my really personal possessions. Yes, these are my baby steps. Thank you for reading this far.

PS: no, we don't have an enfield yet

how do you know that?

You actually read this… and you even remember it!

My mouth was to the floor. I couldn’t believe it. Here is a person that knows about me, about what we’ve been doing over the past few months, and she remembers names and places, and has questions that need clarification, and and and… hold on, we were just introduced. I was shocked! Ok, you might be thinking that I am a bit stupid to be shocked but no, not really, just innocent maybe even naïve (come on now, a little diplomacy goes a long way). Lets rewind a bit.

Back in Ponferrada, when we were at Eva’s house, I suggested to Nisarga that we start a blog. I have only read two blogs in my life, my friend Kuku’s and Eva’s. and both on just one or two occassions. Eva’s blog was a way to keep in touch with her family and friends in Spain while she and family were in India, and now that they are in Spain again to keep in touch with new friends in India! I thought, wow, brilliant! And it inspired me!!! You see, I’m not so technologically apt, I’m pretty slow, and hesitant, and pretty much have an aversion to all things mechanical. But this Nisarga fellow I’m attached at the hip to, he’s pretty all right with machines. So I threw the idea out there while we were in Ponferrada, and within 24 hours he had set it up! Wow!!! Sometimes his efficiency scares the daylights out of me. Anyway, within 48 hours of that, he had shared the address with all his friends, family, acquiantances, and generally anyone he had ever even bumped into. I on the other hand have only now, yes, 2.5 months after creation, shared the address with my friends.

Sounds rather odd right, because Nisarga has made all of 3 entries on our blog, out of 50, up until now. A little side note: sometimes I had the feeling of a housewife, dutifully typing a mass end of the year or christmas update to be mailed out to friends and family along with the annual family portrait, reporting on the highlights from the hubby and the kids and the dog and whatever; I laughed at myself for feeling this way. I didn’t complain much about this mind you, because it was my idea to begin with and I was greatful that he set it up and that I could post entries. I didn’t think anyone was reading it, and as far as I was concerned since I didn’t share the address with anyone, no one was reading it. I just wanted to write and put up pictures for the sake of doing it. Because I simply wanted a space where I could do that. Like somewhere to document things. Sharing it with others was not the point, documenting it was. That was my coccoon phase; I believe all beings and concepts and entities, basically all things, have coccoon phases, where they are protected or nurtured or looked after specially. So that was the coccoon phase for the blog according to me, and now it’s time for the butterfly to fly (I am aware that the life span of a butterfly is 1 day, it’s just an analogy).

So, when we were in Northhampton and we met Gemma and she started referencing the blog, I was shocked. I felt exposed, seen, known. I swear it felt weird. I think I turned red for a while and giggled a whole lot, I was a bit embarrased. I felt transparent, knowing full well it was me who wrote all of that which she was referring to. So to our faithful fan and scrupulous reader, Gemma, thank you for reading these entries and taking them to heart. You asked me to tell you when everything had been updated with pictures and text so that you could re-read it, and so I’m letting you know, everything dated before this blog entry is set in stone… period.

And to Eva, our inspiration and number one fan, thank you for reading it from day one and for supporting us in so many ways!

And thank you Dave for asking about how to see the pictures in larger format. We included instructions just under the description about us, but just in case anyone misses that, please know that if you double click on any picture you see on the blog, it will pop up full screen. Also, at the end of some of the entries, there is a picassa link. You can copy and paste that onto a separate window and it will take you directly to that album. We have pasted the link for specific albums at the end of the corresponding entries. If you just want to go to all the albums, there is a link at the bottom of the huge picture of us at the beginning of the blog (I swear we are trying to figure out how to make that big boy a bit smaller), and that will take you to a page where all the albums are listed and then you can click on any of the albums you want to check out.

Also, at the end of some of the blog entries you will find links to wikipedia in English and in Polish, since some of you are interested in knowing more about some of the places we have been to. If anyone is interested in any other language, like Greek or Spanish or French, go to the link in English, and on the left hand side you will see a long list of languages, click on the one that suits you and you will be automatically taken to that page; it may not be as extensive as what you would get in English but there is usually something there. We admit we haven’t really written much about the history, politics, economics, architecture, geography, etc. of these amazing places we’ve been to, so this is a way to supplement this kind of info.

And thank you Pawel for asking if you can send comments. Yes of course, anyone can share comments. You can do that by clicking on comments at the end of a particular blog entry, and whatever you write everyone else who checks the blog will be able to read as well. Or you can send us an email through the blog, or to one of our personal accounts which you know from before. And we would love to get comments from you, any of you, please share thoughts, suggestions, reflections, clarifications that you think are needed, questions, whatever.

And I feel the need to write this, for Nisarga’s sake, who is either frustrated or humoured at the pictures I “correct” before posting. I just learned how to use the basics, very basics, of Photoshop and I’ve become addicted to saturating pictures… you’ll see what I mean when you see the pictures. So if we look orange… don’t be scared, we don’t actually have skin cancer or anything.

So check out the blog whenever you want a little virtual piece of either one of us! To all of those of you who were used to mass email updates, there aren’t any plans for more of those. We’ll try to post something on a weekly basis. So now the butterfuly spreads its wings and plays with the wind. Happy reading and viewing everyone; yes, I really mean everyone now.

jamon

the sweet sound of that word in my ears... the saliva it produces in my mouth, oh the wonderful memories!!! these past 7 weeks in europe have actually been a jamon (ham) tour. yes, poor nisarga. i started the tour in france and spain spoiled me rotten, i think at least 1/3 of my body became jamon. and just when i thought it was all over... the polish connection in northhampton saved the day! pawel had polish sausage in his fridge and it was oh so good, and what a lovely sopresa! of course i carried a few sausages back to india with me to feed my addiction just a bit longer. oh what sweet memories!!!

i've declared to nisarga that i might want to name my first born jamon! he objects, but compromises that the kid could eat ham on sundays. he once too loved ham!

coming back to northampton

After one month in Spain we decided to come over to Northampton where I lived before India. Having friends there wanted to show around to Antigoni. This is special place for me, where I worked, lived, had fun, painted, danced. I met there great people and good friends. Paul was willing to pick us up at the Luton airport on Saturday night. Without hesitation he agreed, despite having Leah birthday party next day. Finally we landed in Luton at 3am, having 3h delay. He was there, I was very grateful. Thank you DUDE that was great favour.

We were very happy having Powel’s as our host, staying at his for almost one week. Of course there was polish sausage in the fridge, so Skarb could try this amazing speciality. On Sunday we went for Leah’s birthday party, it was surprise, so we pretended we don’t know. Paul and Leah were waiting downstairs in the car to drive around for picnic (that’s what Leah thinks we do), finally we arrive to cricket club’s field, which was rented for the party. Here are many friends and family ready to sing “happy birthday…”.It was great entertainment including outdoor activities, and few jet planes, painted hearts on the sky.

I wanted to show Deepa Oxford, Cambridge, MK, London however the priority was to fix the laptop, stuffed with viruses. That could be done only by the IT expert Davidek, so most of our vacation in UK we spent at his place trying to sort it out. The weather wasn’t too hot, so we didn’t feel like being outside too much. After Spanish heat Antigoni was wearing few layers of clothes, as it was very chilli and cloudy, normal thing in England. With this type of weather her heating body system is not able to produce enough warmth J

From England we took the plane to Delhi on 27th August, I was looking forward to be back to India and Osho Nisarga, where we booked for self discover and non violent communication workshops.

For the picassa album from northhampton go to: http://picasaweb.google.com/nisargaanddeepa/Northhampton#

We’re still $%^&*£! here!!!

What a day…

Yes, at 1am, on Saturday night, we are still at the Barcelona airport. So lets review today… was it something in the stars? Because economically, stress and anxiety wise, it was a tough day! How could this be? Did Spain just not want to let us go? Or had Nisarga offended the Spanish Gods by fasting for the last 7 days and not once tasting the jamon? He drank plenty of sangria!!! And we had tons, kilos and kilos, of ice cream and desserts! Had we not spent enough money on hotels since we couch surfed so much??? What did we do wrong???

Ok. So as it turns out, at the earrings place the sales woman overcharged us by 2 euro. Yes! That 2 euro we were short at the menu!!! But we only figured this out later. Then when we went to exchange the 2^nd left earring, we somehow dropped the pair of hoops that Nisarga bought in Guadarrama and which he really loved. I guess they no longer wanted to be with us. Of course it goes without saying that had we had a printed copy of the flight information we may have saved on some energy and angst and money. Ok, that’s where we left off on the last entry.

So we are really pressed to get to the Barcelona airport now. Only two options from the Girona airport. A bus into Barcelona city and from there metro, taxi, bus, or a combination of some or all of the above. Or, a bus or taxi back to the Girona train station and train to Barcelona and then metro, taxi, bus combo. Second option wasn’t even really an option because we didn’t have time for the 1.5 hour train ride. The buses were leaving constantly, as soon as they would fill up, and although it would take almost 2 hours, it was a surer bet. And a much more expensive one! The train ride up was less than 6 euro. The bus was 24! Well, ok, good thing we still had some cash on us. Once we got to the bus terminal in Barcelona we realized it was exactly where we had been the day before at the end of our walk before heading to the train station for Girona. This felt oh so cruel. And our bags felt oh so heavier! We got on the metro. We could take it a couple of stops away and try the bus, or several stops away and try the train. We gambled for the bus. A wise decision. As we were walking up to the bus stop there it was, a sight for sore eyes. A bus that said aeropuerto on it! Another 15 euro. Sure! But we were guaranteed a straight shot to the airport, no more getting on and off for us. And just after leaving the bus stop, we passed some sights that I wanted to see the day before but we had run out of time. A little balm on my wound.

When we got to the airport it was 2000. Just on time! We had to quickly unpack and repack, because at the last minute we figured out (yes, we are geniuses) that we could not take a wine bottle in our carry on with us. And no matter what Nisarga said, I was not leaving those behind. Good thing we each had a yoga mat with us… not that we ever used it in France or Spain for yoga… but they make great cushioning for transporting wine bottles in backpacks, since the backpack material doesn’t offer much protection the way other luggage might. So we go to check in at the register. We are each at about 21 or 22 kg. The luggage goes through; we get a boarding pass, and a food voucher. “What is this for?” we ask. It’s so that you can get something to eat or drink, your flight is delayed by 2 hours. What?????????? You gotta be shitting us!!! All this dashing from one city to another, trains, busses, metros, cars, 3 hours later and almost 50 euro lighter and on top of it it’s delayed!?!

Ok, ok, ok. Calm down, at least we didn’t miss the flight! Right, that’s what matters. Ok. Fine. So why is it that it’s 1am and we are still here? Because it’s still delayed!!! Poor Nisarga has been trying to get in touch with his friend Paul who is due to pick us up at the airport. Our expected landing time now? 3am! Ouch!!! Poor Paul.

But here is a silver lining on my rather dark grey cloud; I got another shot at jamon! I wanted a cheese and jamon sub for my voucher but they had run out and I would have had to pay more for the only other thing on the menu that had jamon. But the lady behind the counter took pity on me and gave it to me for the voucher amount. Yuppieeeee! Bless her.

Nisarga tried to sleep some and then started doing some stretching and yoga. I took advantage of the time and selected pictures and wrote on the computer. And finally, with a boarding call just after 1am, Spain has decided to let us go… with an unforgettable last day!!!

chilling...

Trying to stay cool

When Spaniards warned us that we would be travelling during the hottest month in Spain, I must admit… I chuckled inside. I even wrote back to a few and said something along the lines of “well I’m sure India’s weather of 42C and above for 2 months must have prepared us a little bit at least.” I thought to myself, what do they know about heat? And it’s true, India gets much hotter then Spain for longer periods of time, and you can not find AC everywhere, and there is the pollution, smells, trash, population density, noise, etc… which make it all seem so much more intense and hotter. However, I also must admit that I was way too arrogant!

While Delhi may be scorching for months on end, I am not trying to sightsee during this time, I’m not even out on the street during the day! I used to be at the office where we had power backup during power cuts, and since I quit I’m either at home or out of Delhi. In fact, I have promised myself to not spend another summer or monsoon season in India again; four were enough.

But here in Spain, we are out on the streets. And since we don’t tend to leave the house early, ever, we are usually out and about during peak heat hours; the hottest time is after lunch, 1-6. So what did we do? When we found water fountains… we chilled out in them, literally. Ranging from just getting our feet wet to almost taking a full on shower, we found Spain’s fountains to be such a blessing! Here are a few shots of us trying to stay cool in different parts of Spain.

here is a cute little titbit. nisarga was often amazed how my nose or chest or back of the neck were cold, when it was hot outside. i explained to him that i sweat, and that's how my body cools down under heat, and that in fact that 's the case in everyone's body. he insists that my "cooling system", as he puts it, works much better then anyone else's because my body parts end up getting quite cool. however, my "heating system" is quite broken as i tend to freeze at anything below 21C!!!

que vivan los fixed price menus!

Oh yes!!!

Long live the fixed price menus of Spain and their colonies. We have tried to figure out between us, and a few friends we’ve asked, if this concept exists elsewhere in Europe. And it seems the answer is no. So for about 10 euro, or as low as 8 and up to 13 euro, you can get a starter, a main dish, bread, dessert, and a glass of wine - or sometimes even a bottle if it’s two of you! And the portions are a fair size. Can you beat it??? In plazas, in bistro type places, all over town, you need not look hard to find them, and sometimes it not only applies to lunch but also at dinner time. This is a double edged sword however. First of all, it’s damn hard to find a menu that has vegetarian options for a main dish. So our dear Nisarga ended up going through several consecutive days where he ate fish and reached a point when he was so sick and tired of it he didn’t even want to see a fish dish. Another drawback is that in the land of tapas, like Barcelona and Andalucia, it is actually limiting. However, the menu has saved us a whole lot of money while filling us up nicely, and has provided us with a range of local preparations.

We are grateful!

how can anyone starve in this town?

that was one of nisarga's favorite things to say whenever he saw a fruit tree or something along the way where we were walking. of course this meant he'd have to try to get a fruit from the tree... no matter how green it was. so he reasoned... there was no way anyone could starve in these towns!

love him...

by the way... veneno means poison in spanish, and still nisarga wanted to try one of those pears!!!

time difference

Coping with Time Difference: Manana, Tarde y Noche

I had warned Nisarga that it may be hard for him to communicate with people in Spain, since not everyone speaks English and he doesn’t speak Spanish. I assured him that I would translate for him whenever he needed. What I had not considered was the translation we both would need to understand the time. No I don’t mean the time on the watch or the mobile. Time is relative, everyone knows that, especially between cultures. So we slowly began to understand that manana was anything before noon, lunch was around 3pm, and dinner was at the earliest 9pm but more like 10 or 11pm. Siesta was from around 1 or 2 until 5 or 6. Needless to say, we were usually starving way before any meal times, and way exhausted by the end of dinner. I don’t think we ever really got used to this time difference.

Magical Girona

And although we spent less than 24 hours there, we really do feel like it is a magical place we hope to go back to one day. We arrived around 10pm, with tons of rain to greet us. Very unusual for this time of year. We took a taxi to Esther’s place, and I fell in love with the house before we even walked in the door! Esther is another friend of Omar’s; they met in yoga teachers training in Kerala. In fact, just the next day she was leaving for India for a one month vacation! What timing.

She is actually from the Basque area, but she came to Girona to visit a friend once upon a couple of years ago, fell in love with the place and moved here. The place she currently lives in is dreamy! There is a rooftop with a hammock and plants. It’s an old house with lots of wood, lots of windows, a wrap around balcony, and wonderful energy.

Their yoga and meditation room became our room for the night. We slept with the window open, listening to the rain and watching the lightning dance across the sky and reflect off of the surroundings. We connected with each other that night in a way we hadn’t since India! Thank you Esther and your wonderful house and Girona and the rain storm!

The following morning there was no question about it, we were definitely spending a few hours walking around and taking in Girona because we were due at the airport around 1730. I say around because Nisarga had bought the tickets on line but didn’t print a copy, said we didn’t need it. But he also didn’t write down the flight info. So we were guestimating based on the time we were supposed to arrive in London and taking into account time difference. We figured we’d be departing around 1930 or 2000. Esther offered to take us to the airport and we joyfully accepted.

So we started walking towards the old town, just 10 minutes from Esther’s place. There was a lovely river and it was a bit overcast still from the previous night’s rain storm so we could easily walk around without feeling like we were melting or fainting. We didn’t see many menu’s though. So we decided we would just keep walking until we found one I liked, since Nisarga was still fasting. A quick side note, this was our last day in Spain and his 7^th day fasting and he was sure he wanted to continue. Crazy kid. Of course he could still have sangria! But I was hungry, and this was the last day in Spain (I think I already mentioned that) so unlike most days I wanted breakfast… 4 scoops of delicious Spanish ice-cream for example!!! Yes!!! That’s right, a champion’s breakfast. It hit the spot just right.

With that boost of energy, and Nisarga laughing his ass off at me, we made our way to the Cathedral and the gardens. It occurred to Nisarga to go into the miniature museum, he was fascinated. Sure, why not? Unfortunately the sex shop did not let me in with ice-cream in hand, but the piercing shop did so we bought Nisarga a few pairs of new earrings. We climb up a few towers to see the mural that stretches across the old part of Girona, and to look over this charming city set in the backdrop of hills and next to a river. Very very charming. Then we stumbled upon a few menus. Ok! It was lunch time. We sat outside and I dramatically ordered my last meal in Spain and my last glass of wine. Of course I ordered the appetizer that had ham, and the main dish that had meat. It was like my last supper! The sangria Nisarga ordered was potent! See the pictures in Picassa to get a better idea.

So it was time to pay… and we didn’t have enough. That’s right… we were about 1.20 Euro s

hort. We were embarrassed as hell! And drunk. So we figured, we go return one of those earrings and then we could have the money we needed. So I, with the worst sense of direction second only to my mother, took off running trying to find the earring shop. I walked up and down and all around and I couldn’t find the shop. I almost couldn’t find my way back to the restaurant even. I had to explain to the owner that we were short, and I offered to give him one of my silver bracelets in exchange, which was worth much more than 2 euro. He said it was ok, that next time we are in town we could come again and leave a tip. How kind!

Embarrassed but relieved, now I was particularly worried because Esther was waiting for us to take us to the airport and we had 15 minutes to make it back to the house. Yikes!!! This time I let drunk Nisarga lead. And guess what, the earring place was just around the corner a few minutes. He found it! We dashed in and made an exchange, which we had wanted to make anyway since Nisarga had picked out 2 left earrings instead of one right and one left. And we speed walked to Esther’s.

We had a lovely talk all the way to the Girona airport and said goodbye with the hopes that we would see her in India. We were there before 1730, our estimated check in time. And guess what? We were at the wrong airport!!! That’s right!!! Our buzz wore off real quick when we were told that easyjet does not fly out of Girona, ryan air does. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

We remembered almost instantly that when we were back in Cordoba, looking at different tickets, we had considered the ryan air ticket leaving from Girona because it was slightly cheaper. But just before hitting the purchase button on the screen we checked the luggage weight allowance. With ryan air it was 15kg with something like 10 euro for each extra kg and I knew I needed the full 20kg allowance that easyjet gives. Otherwise, the ryan air flight would turn out to be more expensive. So we scrapped the idea of flying ryan and bought the easyjet ticket out of Barcelona! That’s right… good ol Barcelona! Where we had been the day before. Where we could have left our huge ass backpacks at the train station locker room, come to Girona with just a purse even, enjoyed it and gone back. Yes, THAT Barcelona. The one we rushed through twice on this trip. Yes, THAT Barcelona. I was LIVID!!!

Speaking of getting back… now did this mean we were going to miss our flight??? Well, we didn’t know. Because Nisarga had insisted on not printing the tickets. So he ran from one end of the airport to the other, trying to find somewhere to check his email. He found it, and luckily for us, our flight was not departing until 2200; so much for those calculations of ours. This meant we had 3 hours to get to Barcelona airport somehow to check in on time. I was a little less livid, just slightly. Now I was also thankful that we could at least still make the flight. Little did we know that the rest of the evening would be a small adventure in itself.

for the picassa album go to: http://picasaweb.google.com/nisargaanddeepa/Girona#

for more on girona in english: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Girona

for girona in polish: http://pl.wikipedia.org/wiki/Girona

the final stretch...

from barcelona to girona it was a 1.5 hour train ride. and what a gem we found! had we not already booked an international flight we would have definitely stayed on for some time.

and another 12 hours in barcelona

and that makes a total of 24!

So now I understand why the universe granted us a day in Barcelona at the very beginning of this trip in Spain (when we couldn’t get train tickets to Ponferrada)… because if we had not had that day we would have only had 1 day in Barcelona, and not even a full day. Thank you!

So we arrived again late at night to the train station, and again Pache was there waiting for us. What a darling. A friend of a friend’s who opened his doors to us when we first entered Spain, allowed us to leave a bag of junk at his place for 6 weeks, and now is receiving us at the very end of the trip as well. Our alpha and omega!

So in the morning we went back to the train station and left all our stuff in lockers, and headed out for the day. It was a day of sightseeing dedicated to Gaudi! We went to the Sagrada Familia, of course still unfinished but with a lot of new additions. And we went to the parquet guell. Interestingly enough, it was cloudy! We couldn’t believe it, what a break from sightseeing in the scorching sun. It even started to drizzle a bit.

We got back to the station, picked up our bags and headed to Girona, a town just one and a half hours north of Barcelona.

http://picasaweb.google.com/nisargaanddeepa/BarcelonaParts1And2#

valencia... not really

Nisarga insisted that he needed, yes needed, more beach time before we left Spain. Ok, fair enough. We are heading to the UK after this where we are almost guaranteed that the weather will suck, and then India where we know we aren’t going to be even near a beach until December or January the earliest. And he didn’t spend every summer of his childhood on an island for a month so the novelty is still there. Alright! So Valencia was a good place to break up the journey between Granada and Barcelona, where we have to return in order to pick up some things we left there and take our flight out to London.

So after mesmerizing Almeria, we head to the bus station in Granada knowing that busses leave every 1-2 hours for Valencia and we expect to be on the next bus out of town. It’s 23:15, and the next bus is at 23:30. However, the next bus with two seats available is at 15:30 the next day! Thankfully for us, and unfortunately for him, the owner of the guest house where we had been staying informs us that 3 reservations didn’t show up and that we could come on over. We get our old room back and sleep in until almost noon. At that point we head back to the bus station, put our bags in lockers, and spend the rest of the day walking around Granada. The overnight bus we take makes no less than 20 stops, HONESTLY, and we arrive in Valencia a day later then anticipated and totally worn out. Now this means that we will only have one night and two days in Valencia because we have to reach Barcelona by Thursday night in order to get our stuff. Ok, well, something is better than nothing!

We take the city bus from the bus station to the train station and we get a bit of a sight seeing tour. Good thing too, because that’s the last of Valencia we see. We are staying with a friend who lives in a quite village outside the city and near the beach. Nisarga makes it clear he has no interest to go sightseeing and quite honestly I’m too tired to make a sincere effort as well so we drop the idea. We spend the day in the house, hanging out with our beloved hosts, also Osho sannyasins and into Gurdjieff, and do pretty much nothing.

Ever since we arrived in Spain, yes since the very first day, Nisarga has been talking about how excited he is to have paella. I had suggested he hold on and wait until we get to Valencia, the birthplace of paella. A few times we thought we found vegetarian or just seafood paella, but it never was the case. So it worked out that he actually never ate any paella on this trip up until now. So here we are, birthplace of paella, beach near by with a family owned paella restaurant that comes highly recommended, and Nisarga is still fasting. That’s right… our second (and last) day in Valencia is day 5 of his fast. So what happens? You guessed it! No paella. And no beach! He is feeling his energy shifting inwards so he chooses to stay at home and spend some time alone, while the rest of us go to the beach and have paella. This man is amazing!

I must admit, after Almeria, this beach is crowded, mainstream, dirty, and uptight. No one is even topless! This is Spain for goodness sake. Still, it’s my last day on the beach for another half a year and I made the most of it. But the lunch is the highlight of this brief trip to Valencia! We are joined by our host’s friend and his wife and their young son. And they are foodies!!! Oh yes! They are locals here and have all kinds of recommendations for typical specialities from the area. I say yes to everything! And it’s soooo good. And the paella, which is also my first on this trip to Spain, is soooo good! I want seconds but I don’t dare order a second plate. So I start asking about cava, the Spanish champagne, and he starts explaining the differences and what I should look for if I want to buy a bottle… and then he gets up and gets a bottle and opens it and starts serving us! What a splendid surprise!!!

Mind you now, bubbly has a very special effect on me… it knocks me out! And we have a train to catch to Barcelona in a few hours. But it’s yummy! And I had been wishing inside me that there would be an opportunity for me to drink some cava as I had not yet on this trip, and with Nisarga fasting it seemed quite unlikely that we would buy a bottle for ourselves. After the cava and truffles and ice-cream and very interesting conversation, we are on our way out, but of course there is some horchata granizada to try still! Has the word “no” come out of my mouth once during this lunch??? Nope! By the time the horchata is down I have been given tips on a happy marriage (by two women who have been married for a couple of decades and are still happy and in love) and on when to become a mother; yes, I know, I’m late!

And it’s also getting late now for us to make the train… which is totally killing my buzz. So he offers us his car to take all the way to Valencia instead of taking the local train to the train station. We make it back to the apartment to pick up Nisarga, and I take a quick shower. We get our stuff back in the car and we make a mad dash for the Valencia train station. There are two obstacles, apart from us already being terribly late. The first is that there is a lot of traffic on account of the city preparing for their first Formula 1 race, this Sunday, and blocking off a bunch of streets, plus there are more people in town due this event. Second obstacle is that we never printed our tickets from the internet. Finally, we make it on board the train and the doors literally close right behind us.

So that was our not even 48 hours in Valencia, and not even in Valencia proper. Nisarga did ask me to take pictures of the paella and the lunch, which I dutifully did, but I erased them before downloading them accidentally. So all you have here is a picture of a picture of a paella. Of course there are no pictures of Valencia to share since we didn’t actually spend any time in the city.

look what we did on our vacation!

we had a baby!!!

not!!!!

but let me quote nisarga: that thing was like jelly, it had no bones no nothing. oh my god!

yes, it was the youngest human being nisarga had ever held, and at first he was sweating bullets, no seriously, i mean it, he was sweating!!! and when the baby started crying, he said: oh no, why are you doing this to me?

still, it was a great experience, yes, even according to him, and he might be just a little less scared of jelly filled human pouches now then he was before. thank you bhati for sharing your daughter with us.

i missed paella again...

here is the time to go slowly north towards, barcelona. we decided to spend two days in valencia to rest more on the beach, that was the plan.first day we spent on hi-tech situation and barti s place. we planned to go for paella today - traditional spanish dish which i dreamed to try for 7 weeks.i am on fifth day of fast, did oil olive cleanse two days ago and my body is still not hungry, so i decided not to go and force it for heavy work. instead resting and chilling out at home, all others are now having bruch or taking sun on the beach.well i enjoy being alone today, i am feeling very centered and consciouss, i guess this is effect of fasting, also started yoga today morning, finaly energy shifted.tonigth we are taking train to barcelona , i gather some strenght to carry 30kg on my back again, well, my choices...

with respect and gratitude

I know that what happened this afternoon, and what happens every day on this planet across many many different borders, has political, economic, legal, cultural, education, etc. implications. However, I write this as just one human being, having experienced a specific event. That’s all.

So on our second day in Almeria we got there early enough and secured a nice spot for our stuff with a bit of shade. Nisarga and I played in the black sand all day, napping and swimming in between without a care in the world.

In the afternoon, some time between 4 and 5, Pedro alerted us that there was a boat approaching with a helicopter following, so it was most likely a boat with immigrants trying to enter Spain illegally. He said they had seen similar boat chases a couple of times before, with the boat landing on the beach and the Spanish boarder patrol chasing after the people. Nisarga and I watched in amazement as the bright orange raft approached, the helicopter relentlessly above it. At the last minute the boat veered towards the beach to our left. The helicopter however landed on the beach we were on. Before doing so we all had to clear off and stand against the rocks as there was so much sand and water blowing in all directions. It landed briefly with 2 guys getting out and running towards the next beach. Most of the people on our beach had already ran over that way. And whoever was left, Pedro, Pillar and Nisarga included, ran over behind the patrol guys to check it out.

I was the only one left on the beach. I sat hugging my knees to my chest. Something had really moved inside me. I wasn’t curious about what was going on over on the beach next door. I had no desire to watch as these guys got chased down while a handful of naked people watched on. I was sad, very sad. A deep and profound sadness came up from somewhere. And I started to cry a bit. Then out of nowhere, well I guess not out of nowhere but out of the beach next door, came running two guys. They were from the boat, which was obvious because they weren’t in uniform and they were dressed and they were running and they looked north African. As they came over the bend they started to take off their clothes, and quickly buried them under the sand. One ran into the tent which was behind where I was sitting, and the other one came over and sat with me. When they were burying their clothes we looked at each other and I gave them a soft nod to mean “it’s ok, I won’t tell, I didn’t see anything.”

So now I have a naked illegal immigrant in front of me and he is speaking to me in Arabic. I don’t understand a word. I try French, but he doesn’t understand me. No English, no Spanish, I don’t bother trying Greek. I’m still in shock actually. After a few minutes Nisarga and some others come over from the next beach. Now Nisarga is surprised. I think I’m asked if that’s my husband and I say yes. None of us can communicate with him. He’s upset, his mobile phone got wet and no longer works, he smashes it. He doesn’t ask for money, he takes off his rings and insists I take them. Three of them. And a currency note from back home. We insist he keep the rings and the money, he insists on parting with them.

For the next hour, the other guy who also made it to this beach hides in the near by tent, set up by a Spanish couple planning to camp out for the night, and this guy lays face down on the beach as if taking sun. The helicopter continues to circle overhead and beyond. The border patrol guys apprehend some of the guys from the raft. They confiscate the raft and try to get it back in the ocean, using it as a way to reach their boat which is too big to get closer. But they can’t get it past the waves. A group of nude beach goers help out (this is actually a very funny scene, with the border patrol guys in shorts and polo tops and shoes and then the naked group all pushing together and then once in the ocean waving thanks and goodbye). I think it’s a don’t ask don’t tell situation. A few people, like that Spanish couple with the tent, are doing what they can to shelter and look out for the two refugees. Others are talking and comparing what they saw, staying away, but not snitching on the two stowaways either.

I’m still in shock. Pedro asks what’s wrong and I don’t know. I really don’t know. So many different emotions have come up, but I really don’t have the space to go into any of them or even figure them out. It’s soon time to go. I leave some water and bread behind for the two, wave goodbye to the guy who came to sit near me, and start to walk back to the car. I carry with me the gifts he insisted on sharing. On our way back down the hill there are 2 border patrol guys waiting and a car, checking on who comes down the hill. I don’t think they will make it through the night there. And if that Spanish couple gets caught helping them, they can also face legal problems. It’s a sad and complicated situation.

As a person who was born in the US, I have been aware most of my life how much people are willing to risk to cross a particular border. As a first generation American (meaning neither one of my parents were born in the US), I am often reminded of how lucky I am. I am asked where I am from, and when I say the US people often follow up with: “were you born there?” When I reply “yes”, I sense an approval come from the enquirer, as if to say, oh yes, then you are a real American. A few strangers have told me how lucky I am. And a few friends and family members have pointed out that while people die, literally, on a daily basis trying to enter the US, here I am trying not to come back… why would I throw all that away? My mother has pointed out that she has worked hard and long to give my brother and I the best opportunities, ones she never could have even dreamed of, and I am choosing to live among poverty and lower standards of living (according to her) than what I could have. It’s that I’m choosing to do this that gets her. (The first time I asked her to visit me in India she said “why would I want to spend my vacation surrounded by poverty? In that case I would just go and visit my own family in Bolivia!” I understood.) But I have never been witness to someone actually trying to cross a border illegally. We see it on TV, in movies, and we see what happens to these people at the hands of US immigration, but never had I actually witnessed it.

These guys had come prepared. They had euro, water resistant bags, gels and sprays and combs, they knew they had to blend in well upon landing. But they landed on a nude beach! That was their first face to face impression of Europe. I thought back to what I remember my mother telling me was one of her first impressions of the promise land, the US. She first went to the US from Bolivia as a nanny, when she was 19, working for diplomats from Israel that were transferred to the headquarters of the World Bank in Washington DC. They had a baby girl and she was hired to look after her. She flew into Miami airport and she said she could not believe her eyes at what she saw. A huge machine going from one side to the other, making the whole floor so shiny. Something that would take so long to accomplish back home. She said she sat on a chair at the gate, and just watched the machine for a while.

Maybe because I come from immigrant parents. Maybe because I have worked in countries where I have been considered very lucky for where I was born. Maybe because I have worked in countries where people do die trying to reach the US. Maybe because I’m not considered to look like a typical American so I don’t get treated like one. Maybe because I realized when I was 12, during my first trip to Bolivia with my mother serving as translator since I didn’t speak Spanish back then, that the only thing that differentiated me from the girls my age selling cookies and ice-cream in the plaza, or the ones carrying their younger sibling on their back, or the ones slightly older who were carrying their child in their belly, or the ones just a decade older then me with a few kids tugging on them… was simply where I was born. If I had been born in Bolivia, to my same mother, I would have had a very similar fate. It was luck of the draw, why I had access to so many more opportunities and they didn’t. I didn’t deserve it more, I hadn’t earned it, I wouldn’t even necessarily make best use of the opportunities in comparison. My parents, by then naturalized US citizens, weren’t even living in the US at the time when I was born. But I was born in the US… the only difference… and a huge difference. And I don’t ever forget that.

And so when I see this, someone trying to cross the border at any cost, my heart goes out to them. Maybe they aren’t the poorest, maybe they aren’t the saintliest, maybe they aren’t the hardest working, or whatever people say about potential immigrants. But I respect them for the sheer fact that they aspire to something more. That they want something more for themselves, for their families. And they are willing to risk their life for it. How many of us can say there are things we are willing to risk our lives for (other than our children of course)? Because is there any need to risk our lives? I respect such a strong desire for a better life, and I’m grateful and indebted to my parents for ensuring that I would not have to make such a decision in this life time.