Delhi

Saturday, November 22nd Thanks to Prakash, Pat and I had arranged to have a private car take us around to visit the sites which Daddy had seen in 1928, and which were still on my checklist. While our driver himself was short on English, his supervisor(with his sprained arm) was able to explain which sites we wanted to visit and recommended a route. It being a bright sunny day without vast levels of pollution, political rallies or marathon runners, Delhi showed itself to be a calmer more lovely city than we had seen in our first impressionable days.... and it didn't hurt that we were in an air-conditioned car which allowed windows to remain closed as we drove through teeming masses of humanity. Our first stop was Safdarjang's Tomb - another sample of a Mughal garden tomb with its central waterway amidst a lovely garden setting with the very impressive tomb facing you as you came through the main portal.It looked similar to Humayun's tomb which we had seen during our first day of touring and that was not by chance. According to the sign outside the main entrance this tomb was "the last flicker in the lamp of Mughal architecture in Delhi". I snapped pictures which would replicate Daddy's earlier shots and before being pestered by too many tour guides who wanted to show us the entire complex in detail, we fled back to our car and continued on to a more eerie experience at Nizamuddin Dargah, the tomb of a Sufi saint of the 14th century. We didn't know exactly where we were going as our driver took us through small narrow bazaars crowded with Saturday shoppers. Suddenly he stopped the car indicating that this was where we were to get out. We hesitated and asked again whether we were really to get out. He mentioned the name of the site, we understood we were theoretically there but somehow we had expected a more imposing entrance. Instead tucked discreetly between a jumble of small stalls and vendor's stands was a narrow entrance way which was obviously our point of entry. We left our car feeling slightly uneasy as we were hemmed in on all sides by vendors, primarily Muslims with their white knit caps and their wives in Burkahs and saris wandering around on their shopping day. As we approached the entrance we were asked to leave our shoes which we did dutifully (praying that they would still be there when we returned). Then we entered a meandering series of narrow alleys which turned first to the left and then to the right. We were passing begging women, young children, sleeping bodies, mangy dogs and a series of shops selling garlands, mementos and other paraphernalia associated with this Sufi site. With every turn we became more nervous as to whether we'd remember how to find our way out and whether we were truly safe, but we were too curious (and probably a bit pig-headed) to turn back and so we plunged on. After a few more turns we found ourselves in a large open area where the white marble tomb was located. Men were sitting cross legged on the ground praying, sari-clad women were kneeling before the entrance under the shaded portico, and there we were - two women - the only two white people in the crowd. As the various people gave us a good stare, we weren't confident that we really belonged here so we took our requisite pictures and fled. It was the only time in which I felt less than safe, but I was glad we had gone since the temple is so much more beautiful in color than the pictures which Daddy captured in black and white. We reclaimed our shoes, gave a small tip, and hopped back into our waiting car as we headed off to our next Muslim site -the large temple of Jama Mashid. Once again we drove down narrow bazaar streets filled with stores, vendors, carts, animals and people until we found ourselves at the foot of a wide set of majestic stairs leading up to a very impressive entrance. Jama Mashid is one of the largest Muslim temples in all of Southeast Asia built in the 1600's by Mughal Shah Jahan who was responsible for the Taj Mahal as well and it is popular with Muslims, tourists and Hindi alike. Once we had deposited our shoes - for the second time that day - we entered the large open square filled with pigeons, tourists, priests and Muslims who had come to pray. It wasn't quite the size of St. Marks Square, but you had that sense of size. The entire square had lines painted on the ground to help organize the over 20,000 people who will gather on important holy days forming a sea of human worshipers kneeling and praying at this most important site. We walked around, taking in the glorious sunny day, snapping pictures of people, and walking (with our heads carefully covered) through the long open colonnades of the mosque itself. Somehow with all its three onion dome towers, the two minarets and its vast entry portal we expected a bigger building, but it was really a long open, portico running the full length of the square with long red carpets laid down atop the beautiful inlaid marble. With our Western eyes I think we expected more of a single sanctuary for the Imam but it appears that thanks to loudspeakers located throughout the square, the concept of an inner sanctuary doesn't exist. From here we were to go to the Red Fort, but I had just about been toured-out and so instead we 'cruised' the main streets of this older area of Delhi with its crowded streets, throngs of humans and its sad run-down appearance. The famous shopping street of Daddy's day - Chandni Chowk is now just a worn-down busy shopping street with mosques, shrines, stores, soft-drink stands and vendors wandering higgildy-piggildy along what once must have been a lovely boulevard-ed street. I had no desire to get out and walk it since it reminded me of the area around Connaught Square, so we took lots of photographs before heading into the newer British-built part of Delhi. The contrast between the two areas is so stark.: the older walled-in section of old Delhi reflects the world as it probably existed before the British arrived with their sense of order,. It teems with life and assaults all your senses with color, sound and smell. The newer government area with its wide avenues, and carefully spaced out homes and large looming government buildings seems almost sterile. It didn't help of course that there were security barricades and security officers near every major site or government building encouraging cars to keep moving with no parking or cruising allowed. We took pictures of the President's Home, the India Gate, the government buildings flanking the President's home before our car was shooed away. Feeling thoroughly Delhi-ed out, we headed back to the Radisson Hotel where Pat pulled together her luggage for her late night flight. And suddenly, as in the beginning I was on my own in Delhi. I went to the hotel's internet cafe where I found a message from Peacham suggesting that a nice set of saris for the young Fickes girls would be greatly appreciated, so with that as my goal for the next day, I went to bed., Sunday, November 23rd Through the hotel I arranged for a car to take me down to the Khan Market where I wandered through the stalls, enjoyed all the Sunday shoppers and drank in my last true Delhi experience. In a small shop which sold Saris and scarves I sat down for a long discussion with the salesman as all around me lovely Sari-ed women were shopping for new garments with their sequins and lush colors. Sari shopping is fairly daunting since the fabrics, the colors and the amount of detail can make a cost go from a few dollars to many thousands of dollars. I was distinctly looking at the low end, and after much dickering and bargaining I came away with the requested saris and a few scarves for myself. And now it was time to return to the hotel and begin the process of packing and checking out. At midnight I was picked up by the driver and escorted through the airport procedures and by 1:30 a.m. I was in the VIP lounge awaiting my 3:00 a.m. departure on Lufthansa Airlines. What a difference from my arrival. I walked into an elegant, clean, Germanly-efficient 747, went to the upper level where myself and three other guests were given our own pajamas, some champagne and some lovely pate before we took off. I dropped a sleeping pill, curled up under my quilt and 'that's all she wrote'. Monday, November 24 Chasing the sun West, we arrived in early morning in Frankfurt Germany. I went to the first class lounge where I took a refreshing shower, had some breakfast and waited for my flight to Boston. Again I was upstairs with three other guests of which one was famed cellist, Yo Yo Ma. I was sooo excited, and I was trying to be soooo cool. He and his cello had two seats behind me. I asked one of the German flight attendants whether that was Yo Yo Ma, and I could have been asking whether it was Herbert Hoover. They had no idea except that "yes, his last name was Ma, and he was very kind". I fell into another long sleep, awoke as we were arriving in Boston, and had only a few minutes with which to talk to Mr. Ma about Rajasthan, the beauty of India and his most recent tour. We were off the plane at 1:30 in the afternoon, through immigration, luggage and customs within 30 minutes. and I was on the Dartmouth Coach heading for Hanover, New Hampshire. There was Bob, and I was home. And thus ended the next leg in my Journey of Discovery.

Varanasi to Delhi

Friday, November 21 Those of us who couldn't get enough of watching burning ghats decided to get up early in the morning to once more ride upon the Ganges in the small wooden boats as the sun began to rise. The scene in the morning lit by the arrival of dawn had a totally different feel than the night before. There were the bathers who seemed to be doing their puja as well as simply having an early morning swim. As we passed one platform there were men, cross legged, laughing with full throated cheer. We were told that laughing is considered to be another form of purifying one's soul and thus while it appeared as though they were having a good laugh, they were actually performing a deeply religious act. (Who knew). We rode in the opposite direction from our last evening's experience and floated past some of the sinking ghats. These have been sinking since the time that Daddy came to this same area, in fact they've been sinking since soon after they were built. It had a certain Venetian quality of sad disarray. Having passed the crematorium ghat, we disembarked and walked slowly through the waking Varanasi warren of back streets. Had we lost our guide, we would have been thoroughly lost since these narrow lanes, too small for anything other than cows and pedestrians twisted and turned as they paralleled the river below. We were snapping away at the sight of cattle; of huge heaping piles of sandalwood which is used on the pyres; young girls, spanking clean, coming out of seedy looking homes all dressed in uniform and ready for a day of learning; tourists like ourselves who had gotten up for this early morning ritual; and all manner of people collecting milk in small tin containers, having their early morning cups of tea while staring at the Americans; and just people doing the things people do when they are trying to get their mind and body engaged for the day ahead. Once back to our bus we went back to the hotel for some breakfast and to pack our bags before heading to the airport and our return flight to Delhi. At the airport there were the usual rounds of good-byes and promises to write and keep in contact. Emails were exchanged and suddenly we were no longer a group of twenty-four but rather a series of individuals and couples each anxious to get themselves to connecting flights or back to the Radisson Hotel, located near the airport, where they would await later flights that evening. Only a few of us will remain after the evening as everyone heads home to Thanksgiving and the lives we left behind. It was a great group, a cohesive group and who knows, we might just keep in contact after the flurry of picture exchanges and emails to which we are all committed. This was my second group tour and it proved as successful as the last. Pat and I will now continue to enjoy Delhi for a few more days as I continue to seek out the sites of Daddy's 1928 visit which were not part of our tour.

Khajuraho and the Day from Hell

Wednesday, November 19 We woke up to a rare November sight - rain. It had been in the air the night before but everyone was quite amazed at this inappropriate weather. Armed with rain-gear, umbrellas and our wireless sets Mama-Ji led us through an amazing sight - the equivalent of the Kama Sutra in sculpture. It's always good to get one's day off to a sexy start. Khajuraho is another UNESCO World Heritage site made up of a series of temples built during the Chandela dynasty which was at its height from 950 to 1050 A.D. On the temples are sculptures depicting all manner of gymnastic and creative (if somewhat dangerous) erotic positions. Men with women, men with men, men with animals, men masturbating, numerous men with one woman being held in a most uncomfortable position, you name it, they'd thought of it. To think of the very severe restrictions which now exist in India, where any public display of physical contact between men and women is frowned on, and where women are hidden behind saris and veils or burkhas and where arranged marriage is the norm, is to understand what the impact of Muslims, British and time can do to change society's concept of sex. Somehow after the tour most couples in our group probably wanted to do nothing more than to return to the hotel and try their skills at these creative positions. But that was not to be. We were off to the airport for a short trip to Varanasi. Or so we thought. Having gone through the most thorough security I've seen at any airport we sat in the small Khajuraho airport awaiting our plane. And we waited...and we waited...and we waited. Luckily we had seats in the very small waiting area, but subsequent tour groups which arrived were left to mill around and as time passed and the small vending stand was swamped the mood grew restless and just a wee bit edgy. After five hours it was finally announced that no planes would be arriving today or probably tomorrow - fog was the stated reason. At this point it was 6:00 p.m. and we were expected to be in Varanasi that night. Prakash and Lisa went into overdrive and before too long all luggage was retrieved from the airport and we boarded the very same bus we had left earlier and were promised a ten-twelve hour bus ride over pot-holed roads with rain and the usual dare devil bus and truck drivers. This was when we came to appreciate our merry group of travelers. We laughed, we joked, we groaned but we all understood this was the only alternative. To salve our souls while awaiting the various license permissions which would allow our bus to traverse the roads from Khajuraho to Varanasi we went to a near-by hotel where drinks were poured for everyone and box lunches were created. We boarded at 7:00 p.m. and every three hours we stopped at some roadside rest stop which gave us all an opportunity to see the 'real India'. For the women a hole in the ground with places for one's feet, for the men not much better. Thank god for Eau de Purrel with which we slathered ourselves after each such stop...and thank god for our sense of humor. Our box lunch, as imagined by India standards, consisted of a bread-on-bread sandwich with a minuscule 1 cm. slice of cheese; a boiled potato; an apple which was off-limits for reasons of health and a few other items I've buried in my memory. Ten hours later having gone over pot-holes so deep that we literally were levitated out of our seats, passing every known vehicle in the rain and with three changes of drivers to assure that they remained alert, we arrived bedraggled but alive at 5:00 a.m. The Taj Ganges Hotel looked like heaven on earth and Lisa allowed as we deserved a bit of sleep. She gave us until noon to rest, shower and gather our wits about us. This was the true Indian experience as none of us had planned it. But we'll all remember our ride through the countryside probably longer than we'll remember the names of the Mughal emperors. It was this event that told us we were in good hands with Lisa and Prakash since for them this must have been a minor nightmare. We all sat like good little children while our two 'parents' figured out the logistics for our night from hell. We appreciated them all the more and understood what they had done to make our trip as smooth as possible. Thursday, November 20th As usual, Lisa and Prakash had re-jiggled the schedule such that all promised events would occur, but not necessarily in the same order. Our first tour of the day was to Sarnath, the Buddhist pilgrimage site. This is one of the four important places in the life of Buddha. Sarnath means "deer park" and it is here that Buddha first taught the Dharma - his first important discourse. We went first to the temple built in the 1930's where wall paintings told the story of Buddha's rise from mere mortal prince, to prophet, to death. There were a group of Buddhists from Asia, the men dressed in saffron robes, who were being led in prayer which gave the whole place a holy atmosphere. We then walked around the grounds where there was an enormous bell given by Richard Gere, and where there are various memorials given by Buddhists from around the world. What is amazing is that it began here in India in the 3rd century a.d., and yet it is an almost non-existent practice here having taken hold more strongly in Asia. At the end of the 12th century, Sarnath was sacked by Turkish Muslims. The site was subsequently plundered for building materials and has remained in ruins until the present day. The site was entirely deserted until 1836, when the British began excavations and restoration... and that is what we would see. We explored the excavations, which reminded me of seeing ruins in Greece. A few walls, the outlines of structures, but a rich imagination required to think of this as a busy, thriving series of temples. At the site were various Buddhist groups, one group wrapping a huge yard-wide golden ribbon around the large Dharmekh stupa, others being led to various sites where they were leaving gold-leaf mementos on the ruined walls of important buildings. We went through the museum associated with the site which was one of the nicest museums I had seen in India. One of the important items which was located in the main entry hall is the Ashoka Lion capital made of polished sandstone - it is a four-headed lion which sat upon a large pillar and which has now become the emblem of India. There were some famous statues of Buddha and many small sculptures of animals which reminded me of Greek animal sculpture of the same period. It is as if people of a fixed period represent a dog the same way, no matter which continent they are from - or rather at a certain level of civilized culture, a sculpture is represented in a similar fashion. Filled with knowledge we returned to the hotel for a rest before our final evening together where our farewell dinner and our journey to its location promised to be the highlight of our trip. We were warned that our dining place would be on the Ganges and that mosquitoes would be rampant, so while we might have truly dressed for the occasion, we rather bathed ourselves in insect repellent, covered all known parts of our bodies and met in the lobby for our next adventure. There we were greeted by a series of bicycle rick-shaws where we were loaded two to a rickshaw for our ride through Veranasi to the ghats. What a hoot! You had to learn not to try and look at the traffic or you would have seen death approaching at every round-about or intersection. Between the trucks, cars, tuck-tuck taxis, rickshaws, goats, cows and pedestrians it was a r0lling nightmare on wheels. No matter which way one turned there was another surreal sight: a cow which had taken up permanent residence inside a fabric store to such a degree that the store now advertised its presence on a huge banner outside the store-front; men squatting by a tea shop chewing on paan (betel leaves) and spitting professionally into the street; a groom riding on his white horse to ride to his wedding and his waiting bride; and people - thousands of them. Afterall, this is THE pilgrimage site for a Hindu. It is where one goes to have ones ashes spread upon the Ganges, and if one is lucky where one hopes to be cremated as well. All manner of pilgrims were walking towards the ghats, stopping to pick up marigold wreathes, votive candles or any manner of offering to give in hopes of a better life. Along the waterfront are a series of ghats - each built by a maharajah for himself and his people so that they could come and bathe in the Ganges. The whole place looked not a lot different from the photographs taken by Daddy - only a few more neon signs to light the way, but otherwise it could be 1928. The same wooden boats are at the base of the ghats for the tourists and pilgrims to ride out upon the Ganges to place ones votive offerings, and ones ashes. For us tourists riding in the boat was a chance to look back at the shoreline of Varanasi and to appreciate the hoards of people. Hindus believe that bathing in Ganga remits sins and that dying here ensures release of a person's soul from the cycle of its transmigrations. Whereas I had believed that re-incarnation was to be wished for, it is in fact the opposite. One hopes that one is NOT re-incarnated since the next life may not be as good as the one you're leaving. It was just plain amazing and other worldly. The darkness, the neon lights, the noise, the prayers, the people, the swarms, the hawkers and the animals.... I have never seen anything like it ever! Our little wooden boat with its half-horsepower engine putt-putted its way past the cremation sites (one at either end of the whole line of ghats), we went under a floating pontoon bridge (with a good deal of comic chaos by our less than expert navigators), and suddenly we were at the base of one of the most elegant palaces in which one of the last Maharaja still lives. It is his private home and for the first time he had opened it up for us to have dinner on his open patio high above the river. The food had been brought in by the Taj Hotel where we were staying, and all we had to do was climb out of our boat, past the muddy shore and up the steepest set of stairs I have ever seen. One false step and one would find oneself tumbling back IN the Ganges which would have definitely not been a good experience. Once one entered through heavy wooden doors, there were still inner stairs to climb to get to the main level of the palace, and every few steps there was a welcoming swastika designed in marigolds. It has taken me a while to get over this symbol of India. For me it represents all that was horrid and evil, but in India at festivals and other happy occasions a swastika design is drawn to represent good luck and fertility. Even the camels of Pushkar had them happily tattooed on their rumps...but it does take me a minute to adjust to this other usage of a hated emblem. We had a wonderful buffet dinner in this magical place where many movies have been made. After dinner each person was asked to stand up and tell the one thing they would remember about this trip. Each person had taken in a different aspect of the trip. For those of a religious persuasion, the deep religious nature of the people had made a strong impression; for some it was the role of the hard-working women who toiled so endlessly and for whom in many cases life was difficult and arduous; for others it was the incredible strength of the family which is in evidence everywhere and which seems so much a part of an Indian's perception of self; and for all of us it was the wonderful guidance of Lisa, Prakash and Doranne who had made this adventure a singular and amazing experience. Each of us had a different experience, but no one left untouched by this amazing place. And thus our trip was ending. We carefully walked back down all the stairs to our boat, putt-putted our way back under the pontoon bridge and to the shore near one of the ghats where we then walked through the sleepy back streets of Varanasi, past sleeping cows and sleeping lumps of bodies before we arrived at our bus which took us back to our hotel for a good night's sleep.

Agra to Khajuraho

Tuesday, November 18th I was afraid I wouldn't get a train journey on this tour, but I did.... Agra to Orchha. The Agra train station and the one described by Daddy have changed very little: dirt, vendors, people living on the station, beggars, noise and ancient trains with people crammed into every nook and cranny. We had to wait at the station for awhile since the train was late, and there was a good deal of mutual staring between the Indians and the Americans - there is a mutual curiosity with the only difference being that we had cameras to capture it all. When our train arrived we were escorted to our first class car where tea, coffee and snacks were served. It was an uneventful ride but nice to add this to my list of local transportation methods. We were met at Orchha by our local Indian guide - Mama-Gi, a fairly pedantic older gentleman who loved to hear his own voice, did not abide disagreement and who was not all that comfortable with using the wireless headsets. (Of all our local guides to date, he was my least favorite. I don't doubt his base of knowledge, it was his delivery and manner which was a bit off-putting). We boarded another bus, a little less plush than the last ones, but perfectly fine for the occasion. Our first stop was lunch at a large restaurant, obviously designed for tour groups, and then we were off to see the 16th century medieval town of Orchha and its a palace high over-looking the town with beautiful wall paintings. I skipped this part of the tour chosing to sit on the bus and read about places we were to see next. I can only take so many palaces and forts before I go into over-load. Upon everyone's return we had the wonderful experience called by Lisa "Bus shopping". This is a process which she and Prakash have obviously done in the past. Its goal is to allow us to avoid the constant hassle of hawkers and vendors who when seeing a group of tourists immediately glom on with a persistence that is to be admired. It can be daunting to have large numbers of young boys surrounding you, shoving items before your face and telling you that they have the best price. Their favorite lines are that "you are my first sale of the day and therefore a special price", or "you are my last sale of the day...." or "my sister made this", or simply "Hey Lady, buy this"....For the most part the objects are all the same, be it books, jewelry, head-gear...but local to each town in which we stop. But the prices are arbitrary and usually start quite high. It's up to the poor tourist to try and figure out the right price, and then god forbid, if you buy something, they smell the odor of a sucker and there will be a hoard of other hawkers sure that if you bought one thing, you want to buy a few things more. It is frustrating since you do want to perhaps buy something, but you don't want to be smothered in vendors. So. Lisa and Prakash arranged "bus shopping" as we leave each location. The two of them would 'negotiate' a price for each unique item from the hawkers, they would bring it onto the bus, and we could buy it directly from them. They would in turn give the money to the hawkers waiting anxiously at the base of the bus stairs to see what they would reap. It was explained that most of these young hawkers all report to one primary 'pimp' to which they owe a quota by the end of the day in order to keep their jobs, so that this added pressure adds to the urgency of their sales approach. We have all enjoyed "bus shopping" which is done in great humor by Lisa and Prakash, but there was a certain pleasure in negotiating directly as well. On average nothing cost more than the equivalent of $2 - 5 so it wasn't exactly a high risk process. So far I have purchased various necklaces, tour books and one snow-globe (glitter rather than snow inside) of the Taj Mahal. The danger is, of course, that you get caught up in the frenzy and find yourself with lots of chatchke that you really don't need. We were now off on a five hour bus ride to our next stop in Khajuraho. Our goal was to stop mid-way at a small village where Mama-Ji was familiar with the children of the town who were awaiting our visit and the bags of sweets and cookies we would leave behind. By the time we arrived it was dusk so we quickly walked to the center of the village where the children gathered and Mama-Gi, acting much like a very stern school teacher, asked each child a series of questions which they answered enthusiastically. It was a bit like watching performing seals waiting for their treats so after a few pictures we returned to the bus stumbling past numerous cows and humans and continued our ride. How to describe the countryside - Surreal. The area we were passing through is a very fertile plain with farms prospering on both sides. Personally I would chose farm life over city life, were I an Indian, but as Doranne explained, the country life is only tolerable if one is a land owner, otherwise you are working for someone with little chance for advancement. To own no land, but to work the land was hard work with little reward. I kept thinking that little had changed since Daddy was here. There were ox-drawn wooden carts carrying grain; ox-drawn wooden plows that looked almost biblical with a man steering the oxen while a sari-dressed woman walked behind strewing seeds in the newly made furrows; there were water buffalo everywhere - the main source of milk and dung; cows looking scrawny, but with free range to walk whereever they wanted and bullocks with their big hump on their back; large pigs, bulls with painted horns which helped to identify the owner; goats and their kids; sadu priests ash covered and scantily dressed; and everywhere piles of garbage. The road was more a one-lane road but was treated as a three - lane super highway with the game of Russian Roulette everytime one passed another vehicle. Who will give way first: the on-coming vehicle, the vehicle you're passing, or your own. With much honking of horns and near- calamities, it was enough to have me sitting at the back of the bus rather than in the front where my heart would be in my throat. We arrived at the Taj Chandela late in the evening, had our dinner and crashed. There appear to be two main luxury chains: Oberoi and Taj. While their prices may be similar, the qualities are distinctly different. Oberoi with its management training and structure gives one a sense of service, the Taj on the other hand seems like the employees are simply there to do their jobs. But in neither case can we complain - the alternatives are not even close. And after a long bus ride any bed looked fabulous.

Jaipur to Agra

Sunday, November 16 Drove to Fatehpur Sikri, another world heritage site. This site was built by Mughal Emperor Akbar in 1571 in honor of the famous Sufi saint, Salim Chishti, who had promised the childless Akbar would he would have a son and heir. This entire walled city became the capital for fourteen years until Akbar moved away leaving this a ghost town. All its lush decor was plundered but the external structure was saved in no small thanks to the efforts of British Viceroy, Lord Curzon. Our guide pointed out the frescoes, the palaces, the administrative area where the 'supreme court' would meet and make decisions. We went into the mosque built for the holy man Chishti where to this day people leave pieces of string tied to the marble lattice work of the tomb, hoping for a miracle to be granted. If their wish comes true they return to the mosque at a later time and leave a sari and money in thanks. Both the coins and the saris are given to the poor. We hopped back on our bus and headed for Agra...arriving amidst throngs of people going to market, doing their shopping and chatting on the streets. We were staying at an Oberoi again - The Oberoi Amarvilas - which is exactly 600 meters from the Taj complex. The rules are that no building can be built within 500 meters of the Taj in order to help reduce the corrosive effect of auto and household fuels. All cars within that 500 meters must run on batteries, not gas or diesel. The Oberoi by being 600 meters away meets the requirement, but is the closest hotel and it is built in such a way that all guest rooms have a view of the Taj Majal. Were it not for the haze and pollution it would be a splendid view. That evening we had a lecture by Doranne on the roles of women in India. One of her articles, "Behind the Veil", was published in the National Geographic in August, 1977. India still has a very structured family environment where most marriages are arranged by the family and the couple may not know each other until their wedding date. While 'love' marriages are becoming more common, the predominant process is to have the parents make arrangements. On Sunday in the papers one sees page after page of ads looking for appropriate grooms. One most ensure that the partner is of the right caste, economic station, moral station, religious persuasion and a host of other criteria. The bride is still asked to provide a dowry, and while it is outlawed, there are still 'kitchen fire' deaths of young brides who either didn't meet the dowry requirements, or who, god forbid are creating too many girl babies and not the all-important boy. The bride in all cases moves into the home of her new husband and is under the thumb of her new mother-in-law and any sisters in law who are also living under the roof. She remains subordinate to the women and is expected to take orders from the senior woman. She keeps herself veiled to her in-laws until such time as she provides the precious grandson, at which point her own status is moved up a few notches and she may even become dominant over the has-been mother-in-law. While there are women who have broken out of this mold of subservience, they are a distinct minority and while divorce is permitted it would bring such shame to the family and would prove so devastating to the woman, that it rarely is exercised. Of course, as Prakash, our Indian tour coordinator told us, the parents work very hard to provide an appropriate mate for their daughter and whereas in the western world one loves and then is married, in India one marries and comes to love ones spouse. He explained that since his own father died very early, he became the 'man of the family' and arranged the marriages of all his sisters, and he himself continues to live with his mother, his wife and various other members of his family under the same roof. (This whole structure is so new to me that I will have to read more to understand it better). And as I was reminded: every family is different. Monday, November 17 In order to see the Taj Mahal in its early morning beauty where it is bathed in the sunrise, our group awoke at 5:30 in order to be at the doors of the Taj Mahal at 6:00 a.m. The big fort-like doors opened at 6:30 and we went through some of the tightest security I've ever seen outside of an airport. Because this is such an iconic structure, and because of unrest in the country, we were advised to bring as little as possible with us. I had brought the 'frog' of the Peacham , Vermont, Library with me, wanting to pose him in front of the building, but he was taken from me by the security guards who couldn't trust that he wasn't carrying some dangerous weapon in his soft body. We all were given white cloth shoe covers so that when we walked on the marble structure we would not mar the surface, and as always the perennial hawkers were there promising us gems beyond belief. When we had come through security we were at a large portal structure from which one could see the Taj at the end of a long reflecting pool. We were told that we were really looking at the back door of the building since most guests would have arrived by water on the River Yamuna. But this is the view that we all have seen a million times, and while I knew what to expect, it still stood out so clean and pristine and perfectly proportioned. Even shrouded in pollution it was beautiful. The building is an octagon with four minarets, one at each corner, designed in case of earthquake to fall away from the building, not into it. At either side are two buildings which have absolutely no purpose than to provide symmetry and balance. We were given lots of information on Shah Jahan the Mughal emperor who built this to honor the death of his favorite wife, Mumtaz Mahal. We learned that he himself took a strong hand in much of the building and that it took over 20,000 workers more than 22 years to complete the structure in 1653. While I thought the building was built entirely of marble, it is actually built of red brick with a marble facade only. The Pietra Dura was astounding with jewels and semi-precious stones used to create intricate floral designs inlaid in the marble. Uncle Walter, in his visit in 1928, waxed eloquent, and felt this was the sight of his life-time; and while Daddy also enjoyed it, he felt that Walter had gone a 'little over the top'. My own impressions were mixed. I appreciate the pure beauty of the structure and the thought that this was built in love, but I think I will always favor the Acropolis, perhaps because it was the first of these iconic structures with which I became familiar. We noted that below the T.M. they were monitoring the level of pollution around the building, and it appeared on a ticker tape readout, looking at first like a stock exchange reader. It has lasted more than 400 years, but without a strong reduction in pollution levels, I find it unlikely that it will be standing so perfectly in 2000 years. It was glorious being at the site so early in the morning with far fewer crowds and the opportunity to get a sense of the place without ducking a million people. Our tour guide told us that he had taken Bill Clinton around the site and that, in the guest book he signed, he wrote something to this aefect: "From now on the world is divided into two groups - those who have seen the Taj Mahal and those who haven't. I'm pleased to have joined the club of those who have." We returned to the hotel for breakfast (after retrieving the frog from security) and had a chance to relax at the hotel. We were then taken to the Agra Fort, which sits across the river from the Taj Mahal. This was built by Akbar and contains a complex of buildings, mosques, palace rooms and large courtyards. There is now a large military barracks attached which was an addition by the British, and which is off-limits since it continues to serve that purpose. There are a series of small areas in which lived the harem, the elegant rooms used by Akbar, and the very sad smaller rooms in which Shah Jahan(grandson of Akbar) was imprisoned in his last years (by his own son, Aurangzeb) and from which he was able to look across to the beautiful tomb he had built for his wife. While the history of this period in India was all new to me, I'm slowly beginning to grasp the lineage of the various Mughal rulers and to place it in context with what was going on in Europe at the same time. At 5:30 we returned to see the sunset at the T.M. and to take our group photograph. It was distinctly more crowded and the lines outside to get in were lengthy. But we all had a chance to wander quietly on our own without being given information, and promptly at 6:30 the site was closed and we returned to the hotel for dinner and bed.

Jaipur

Friday, November 14 We awoke at 5:40, had breakfast at 6:00, and were on the bus by 7:00 to get to the Amber Fort early to line up for the elephant ride to the top. We still stood on line surrounded by hawkers selling everything under the sun: "cheap, sister", "you are my first sale of day, for you special price", "auntie, for my poor mother" etc., etc. Our 'mahout' ( elephant driver) took us up to the fort on a wonderfully painted elephant - a smoother ride than the camel. I adore elephants with their sad eyes, huge leathery skin and steady plodding ways. I know they were once used as punishment - being crushed by an elephant foot would prove fatal - but they are such faithful steady things. Once at the top we had a very fine tour of the fort which was built from 1600-1700. While only the structure stands one can sense the lushness, imagine the carpet strewn rooms, the lavishly painted walls, the multi-mirrored room which with only a few candles could give the effect of a sunlit day in a very dark space. I had no camera (batteries out) but others took plenty of shots and we've all agreed to share them on line. What was compelling to me was the amount of human labor that was in evidence: to create a new floor, two men were hacking away with simple hoes and three women in brilliant saris were loading up 16" diameter wok-shaped bowls, raising them to their heads and slowly, gracefully hauling away the stone...returning again and again. No rush, just calm acceptance of this. At another location, there were women sweeping the dust from one corner to the next; and at another spot, women were sifting ochre colored dry cement to make sure it had no lumps. I know this is the full employment policy, but when you know that the average income for an Indian is less than us$600/year you feel so spoiled, so rich. My only disappointment in India is the trash... which is everywhere! Some of this can be blamed on plastics and packaged goods, but there seems to be an over whelming amount of trash in every place. Each individual shop keeper or stall owner or family keeps its own doorway swept, and at times they are literally sweeping the dirt to keep other stray material away, but that just moves it to the general area where it seems to accumulate. We are told that trash is swept away often, but when one sees cows and pigs grazing and chewing on cardboard and plastic you worry about the internal organs of these beasts. And waste bins are totally non-existent - be it at monuments, on streets, at shops. Maybe they would be stolen or misused but we 'green' Americans, taught not to throw trash anywhere, have our pockets laden with used tissues, wipes and plastic bottles... looking for a place to put them. But of all the problems which India faces: cholera, polio, malaria, illiteracy, job creation, infanticide, homelessness, perhaps trash collection is lower on the list. Once we had completed our tour, and taken a jeep down from the fort to our waiting bus, we went off to the Channi Rug and Fabric store where, in the calm of no hawkers, amidst beautiful fabrics and silks, I had myself measured (like in Hong Kong) for three Kamese: paisley silk, black brocade and shantung-like blue silk, and some pants. It is always awkward to stand there being measured in every part of your body while standing among the shoppers, and again like in Hong Kong the measurer and the recorder of data are speaking in Hindi, but they promise that by tomorrow morning garments will be delivered to our Oberoi Hotel. With that dent made in my shopping budget I returned to the beautiful hotel to 'chill' while others continued to various jewelry stores. This hotel may be my favorite so far, set amidst beautiful gardens with swimming pools, and clusters of units scattered throughout. One is truly in an oasis, and one can have a real sense of guilt when you realize that one night in such a luxurious site is equivalent to a year's earnings for those outside the gates. Each of the people on the staff is proud of their position. Oberoi provides a training program throughout India which is considered to be top rate. If one does well, one moves up the ranks of Oberoi and is sent to one of their many locations throughout the country. A fine opportunity for both men and women. In the evening Doranne provided a lecture on the pantheon of 300,000 gods which have a place in India. The main ones I'm beginning to recognize in painting and sculpture, but there are an incredible amount and each has its own vehicle of transportation, its own rituals, characteristics and purposes. We then learned about the various religions and customs which guide this country. My concern is that, like in old Greece, one can always use the gods to rationalize one's life and this belief that 'all is meant to be' could hold back a country that needs to move into the next century. It is a mixed blessing to have a strong religious faith: it provides one an explanation, a source of calm, an understanding of life, but were I living in a hovel with nothing and with no running water, I would hope that my children could improve their lot, and I'm not sure God will get them there.

Saturday November 15 -

Luggage out at 8:00 a.m., on the bus by 9:00, for a four hour bus ride through the countryside to a small town (name not remembered) where we stayed at our slightly less luxurious hotel - The Bagh in Bharatpur. But compared to the world outside our gate, we were living in a palace. The discrepancy is frightening, and as each worker left the compound they were being searched, and as one entered the compound all cars were examined with a mirror under the car looking for dangerous explosives. We are truly in a cocoon. This site is an old orchard (Bagh means orchard and this one had guava trees)which belonged to the Maharajah of Bharatpur who entertained dignitaries who came to hunt the birds at the reservoir he had constructed for the purpose of luring the birds there. The Bagh is now owned by Raj Singh the nephew of the former Maharaja and the orchard was opened three years ago as a hotel. Our rooms have bars on the window, and through them one hears pigs, goats and roosters and much chatter by those living in less elegant settings just on the other side of the wall. A few of the tour members went on a walking tour of the village (Pakka Bagh) to see India up close, but I feel too much like a voyeur peeking into the world of this relatively prosperous agricultural village... and it just seemed wrong...so I stayed at the hotel and read. I don't like to think of people on display for the tourists, no matter how worthy it may be for our knowledge. Doranne, our knowledge-leader, has spent years living in a small village in the 'belly button' of India, living with rats, snakes etc., while working on her dissertation in anthropology. She did this over 30 years ago with her husband, an archaeologist. The world she lived in is described beautifully in various articles she has written. She understands India, but doesn't gloss it over or explain things through rose-colored glasses. She obviously loves this country and its people but is clear about its problems as well. She has been a great resource on this trip and we turn to her often to explain the unexplainable.

After lunch we were loaded back on the bus for a visit to another World Heritage site - Keoladeo Ghana National Park., the bird sanctuary which used to be the hunting grounds for the Maharajah. We hopped onto two-person bicycle rickshaws and with our wireless headsets on our heads, we were led by a local ornithologist into the mango groves to see the birds: painted storks, kingfishers, anhinga, ibis, owls, cormorants, herons, and beasts like antelope. There are over 200 known pythons in the park, and luckily we saw none of them. It was an amazing oasis of calm and beauty amidst dung smoke and poverty. Our 'pedalist' has done this for eleven years, his legs were pure steel. He knew where all birds could be seen, where they nested and he spoke just enough English to explain what we were seeing. It was a lovely way to end our bus-filled day as all the pedalists raced each other at the end of our tour. They behaved not that differently from drivers on the road, making a one-lane path seem like a super highway as they rang bells, passed on the left or right and dared each other to give way.

After a rest at the hotel, and dinner in the dining room, there was a simple performance of dance by locals and off to bed for another bus ride.

Delhi/Pushkar/Jaipur

Friday - Nov. 7 - Haze. (aka smog, and pollution, so admits the paper). I stayed in since nothing encouraged me to get out in that air. Pat arrived at 11:30 p.m. we stayed up to watch Obama's first press conference - very staged, stiff, but we had to watch. We feel like we're on another planet. Saturday - Nov. 8 - Having both taken a sleeping pill , we woke at 11:00 a.m., had breakfast in bed and strode out to greet Delhi. A taxi picked us up and we headed for Connaught Place, which we were told was a shopping Mecca. To be a cab driver in Delhi is to be a dare devil - cycles, auto rickshaws, bicycles, cars, all jockeying for position while people and animals wander through it all. Whenever we stopped there were beggars at the windows asking for rupees, or children, or mothers with babes in arms. You had to steel yourself and look away. The hotel suggested that you rather leave money in a jar at the lobby to help the city poor, since to help one was to only invite a thousand more to come. We arrived at Connaught expecting some form of a mall, but it was rather a circular sprawl of small dirty shops, vendors on the street, hustlers trying to 'help' you find a location... or simply people strolling chatting into their cell phones. All the young are dressed in western dress, the older generation - especially the women continue to use saris. After twenty minutes we wandered back to where our driver was waiting. He had accepted no money when we left the cab, assuming of course we'd go back with him. He drove us next to the Craft Store where there were truly beautiful things...unfortunately Pat and I were not great at money conversion, so we estimated everything as way too costly. We were soooo far off! I saw a lovely scarf for 5500 rupees which I thought was 250 dollars, and was more like $100... oh well. Back to the hotel and a rest. Sunday - Nov. 9 - Another polluted foggy morning. We read in the India Times that the airport had to close runways because of poor visibility. Theoretically there was a large temple outside our window...which we saw once. We decided to make a trip to the Red Fort, but after spending 30 minutes in horrendous traffic, we turned around and relaxed at the hotel. It was Sunday and between families out for the day; a marathon being run through the street; and accidents...the pollution just didn't encourage us. God knows how they will get ready for the Commonwealth Games in time...it's like China. Pat and I who are quite adventurous both agreed that this city did not encourage one to explore. I wanted to go to Jama Mashid where Daddy had been, but was told that with recent 'unrest', it wasn't safe. So we bagged that idea as well. We're waiting for our tour to begin, where we hope to see more with more protection. Monday November 10 - A leisurely morning until we met our tour group at lunch - a mixed lot with everyone telling their tier one stories as we lunched. Our tour leader Lisa from Berkeley, and Doranne from Ann Arbor, and Prakash our local coordinator, instructed us as to how the day would go. We loaded into a lovely air-conditioned bus and with our local Delhi coordinator (Vicar) headed for a quick tour of the New Delhi Government Area, where we saw plenty of civil servants out on the grass areas playing cards or cricket. Then we headed to Mughal Emperor Humayun's tomb - a lovely garden oasis with a large tomb in the center and many smaller tombs around it... including a tomb for the barber. As we were told: the barber is the person closest to the head of state, and with a razor available at all times it was good to give him his own temple, and probably lengthen your own life. We were given lots of data quickly, and just as quickly forgotten... but I have the guidebook and can review what ever I think I need to remember. Groups of school children were also attending the tomb ,and they were as curious about us as we were about them. Lots of pictures taken...lots of shy winks. Back on the bus and off to Qtub Minar where Daddy also had gone. Took pictures at the exact same places that he had stood - very eerie and lovely. All the guides were pleased to help me in my quest to find the locations ...and where I wasn't sure of a particular photograph, they identified the exact location for me. Prakash, our Indian coordinator, had studied German in school and often led German tours ,so he could read Daddy's handwriting as well.... and was translating for me, just in case I didn't know German. Very amusing. While driving back to the hotel past beggars, children doing tricks for coins, mothers with children and scrawny starving people asking for handouts we passed by in our swank bus heading for our swank hotel while being taught the history of India, the caste system and the economic situation. Evening cocktail hour, sit down dinner, and a chance for each person on the tour to introduce themselves. My first impression: well run tour; very educated tour guides; interesting and curious tour members...this should be fun! Tuesday - Nov. 11 - An incredibly early start to our day. with luggage outside the door by 6:00 a.m., we staggered to breakfast and on to the bus ,and off to Indira Gandhi Airport used for local within-India flights. Security was like the US, with the only difference being separate lines for men and women so that women inspected only women. We flew on Kingfisher Airlines. It's as if we had a Budweiser Airlines in the USA. Within 40 minutes we had arrived in Jaipur where we boarded our bus for the three hour ride to the Pushkar Camel Fair. Doranne, who spent many years living in India and who loves the place deeply gave us some interesting data about the place we were going:

• Pushkar means Lotus Blossom
• 10k tourists come to see this site which is a new thing on the tourist route
• Over 200,000 Indians come to this every year
• There is both the Mela - or fair - where one has Ferris wheels, cattle trading, camel trading and races...and there is the religious aspect.
• Pushkar is where Lord Brahma lived...it is the only site in his honor, and people come at the full moon to swim in the lake and be blessed.
• Over $2 million dollars swaps hands during the fair where camels and cattle are the biggest sales, and horses and goats the next.
• Often the animals must be sold because there isn't enough fodder to feed them.
• Camels are beginning to dwindle as their grazing land becomes populated. A camel is used for its milk, its ability to haul things for long distances, and when it dies for its bones and its skin. They are never butchered and the same goes for cattle and horses.
• Saddu's are a very small and strange sect who come to the fair to beg and to earn rupees by doing some pretty amazing tricks including one who has taken a vow of silence for 25 years and maintains his chastity. To prove this, he hangs a large rock off his penis....this has to be seen to be believed!!!

As our bus went through the countryside we passed camel caravans, water buffalo, goats gamboling, and cows; and small villages where men sat at their tea shops by the side of the road sipping sweet tea and gossiping - like Greece.

Suddenly out of no where we're in Pushkar! We came to our Raj Resorts Tent Complex - and that is exactly what it was. They pitch large tents for the 10 day festival complete with flush toilets, cold running water and cots with tons of blankets...and we're here. It was not what was expected by most, and it was like arriving at camp as a child. We sat under a tent, had lunch, and then relaxed on our cots for a few hours. To get hot water one walked to a location where a gentleman would smile and bring you a bucket of boiling water which when mixed with the cold water of the tap allowed you to take a sponge bath or whatever you chose. Primitive after the Oberoi Hotel, but kind of fun since we knew it was just for two days.

Once rested we got onto flat-bed carts drawn by a camel - four people to a cart - and headed in a jolting way to the fair grounds. Every place we passed we were stared at...after all, many of these villagers had never seen Caucasians in their lives. We passed tuk-tuk taxis jammed to the gills; busses with people crammed in and on the roof; cycles, scooters and tourist buses all trying to find space on a sleepy two-lane road which normally serves a very small community of Brahmins. Our camels seemed impervious to the noise, loping along in their disjointed manner. I took lots of pictures and shooed away lots of beggars selling sandlewood statues, necklaces, elephants, bangles, booklets, you name it...they had it. These 'merchants' come to the fair from as far away as Agra to make a few quick rupees during the fair. We headed into the heart of the fair with naked children, gaunt men and women; and everywhere the brilliant colors of the saris. Bareback riders would whiz by, camels would snort and sneeze ,and you ducked to avoid the disgusting mess; and we passed people sorting out fresh dung to make dung paddys for fuel. People were grinding fresh sugar cane to make sugar cane juice; piles of fresh fodderwas being sold by the kilo to feed the incredible volume of animals; and all manner of snacks were availabe, which smelled wonderful but which would have killed us instantly. Words cannot describe this scene! To be in a dessert of soft sifting, blowing sand surrounded by camels, horses, people, piles of dung, piles of plastic and filth, touts selling any and everything ...and smelling new smells, hearing all manner of new sounds and constantly having ones eyes assaulted by another thing which you've never seen before. It was surreal. Usually I can compare things to other things in my past - there is absolutely no comparison. It is a unique first in my life experiences. I feel as new to this as Daddy did to seeing his first black Egyptian. Some of our fellow travelers were less charmed, seeing only the dirt and the dust, and wanted to go home. And in fact one woman left and asked to go back to Jaipur to await our return.

If one wanted, one could have a shave, have a dentist pull a tooth, or simply have a snack. We learned that camels live about 25 years; that their owners feel very close to their animals who provide them so much help, and feel terrible when they die. A good camel could be sold for us$10,000 dollars.

We 'camel-carted' back to the hotel, and Pat and I skipped dinner to sleep.

Wednesday - November 12-

It was a chilly night and I slept well under my pile of blankets, since there is no heat in the tents, and in the desert at night it can be quite nippy. After a breakfast of tea and toast we headed into the actual town of Pushkar - the place where Brahma is worshipped. We wandered through the very crowded markets filled with all the pilgrims coming for the fair, and for the holy swim in the lake. The stalls which had been set up sold all manner of dime-store things which reminded me of the markets in Monastiraki(Athens) in the 'old days' of the 60's. There were men putting soles on old sandals, using old tires; blacksmiths making bowls and tin containers; dentists pulling teeth; men selling fleece clothing, mattresses, blankets, camel decorations, snacks...you name it, they had it.

We walked to a small shoe shop ,where we left our shoes and our valuables in the merchant's care, and proceeded to the holy temple of Brahma, where having gone through the throngs and past the security police ,we walked up the stairs to strew rose and marigold, and sugar cubes, at the 4-headed statue of Brahma. Men to one side women to the other....It was an unbelievable scene, and someone said that it made the subway in New York at rush hour seem like a joyride!

Next stop was to have our own Puja (blessing) done. Doranne, having been here many times, was very good friends with a Brahman priest, and she suggested that it would be an interesting experience, and as she said, it certainly couldn't' hurt. We walked to the lake, sat on a series of steps rising from the water (we couldn't go into the lake, and probably wouldn't have wanted to). We were first given a handful of aromatic rose petals mixed with red powder (for blood and life) and yellow powder (for wealth and fortune). Next the priest asked us to repeat a prayer for our family and for ourselves and to think of a blessing which we wanted fulfilled. Next he handed us a coconut (not sure about its significance), we were daubed with a red dot to signify that we were married, and each of us received a red and yellow wrist band made of string which was proof of the contract we made made with the priest - we paid him 100 rupees, he prayed for us and carried the message directly to Brahma. Prakash, our Indian tour leader explained that each family may have its own family priest and if you came to Pushkar and knew your village and your caste you would be led to a specific priest who would know your entire family lineage. These are not only memorized by the priest, but are documented which serves as a fine genealogical process.

Feeling blessed, we worked our way back through the throngs to retrieve our belongings; climbed aboard our camel carts and headed back for lunch. In the afternoon six of us brave souls decided we needed to ride a camel directly. What a hoot! The hardest part of the event was getting up from the ground without falling out of the saddle, and at the end getting down, as the gangly -legged beast lowered itself down again. The rest of the ride was just a jolting, rocking event as we passed cars, humans and buses with everyone smiling at the silly white people riding camels...obviously we didn't look as if we did this often. However, I'm glad I did...It was a round trip ride to the fairgrounds and back again. Spent the rest of the day reading and writing in my diary.

Thursday November 13 -

Another early departure from Pushkar. This was the big day to be blessed at the lake - the day after the full moon and every bus, cart, tractor, flatbed or truck was loaded with people dressed in brilliant saris coming for their rituatl bath. It took us almost an hour to get out of the throngs because it was a small two laned road, and people were hoping it was a four lane road...which meant much jostling with our bus being the largest and the least likeliest to jostle. But we were able to stand a lot and were observed by all. I took lots of pictures of preening young men proud to have their picture taken; shy girls who giggled and posed; and older women who simply covered their faces with their saris... and all the time "Hey Lady..." Hello!

Returning to Jaipur, the same way we had come, past sparse vegetation and dirt. To see the women in their brilliant saris working in the fields in an otherwise brown and dusty surroundings was to see a gem sparkling in the mist.

Jaipur may be a wealthy town, but it doesn't look it. Along the sides of the road were monkeys, pigs, camels, cattle, dogs, goats, water buffalo, people going to the bathroom, shaving, sitting, eating, hawking...the streets are where they live and one's eyes can't absorb it all. I just kept snapping pictures since every sight was interesting and new - the fruit stands mounded with pineapples, chestnuts and things I couldn't name; the tea shops with people sipping hot sweet tea; women sweeping the dust to make sure their own personal space seemed orderly; a dead camel at the side of the road; people brushing their teeth, making wooden rakes, sewing blankets, you name it it was happening.

We were driven to the palace of the Maharajah of Jaipur whom Doranne has met numerous times. We never saw him (we're told he is old and had a stroke recently), but we did dine on his lovely veranda overlooking peacocks and acacia trees. After lunch we toured the palace, and then went to visit the astoundingly wonderful Astronomical Observatory...both an aesthetic as well as a scientific wonder which I won't describe in the blog but which I will need to study further to understand.

Exhausted and over-stimulated with data, sights and smells, we collapsed at our very luxurious hotel, The Oberoi Rajvilas, which deserves its claim to be one of the top resorts in the world. It is set in a park-like setting with various buildings scattered along lovely pathways where one actually had a room. Peacocks were wandering, sprinklers were sprinkling and golf carts took the lazy from one spot to another. Everyone took showers, and arranged to have laundry washed after our two days in the desert. (Laundry service is amazingly reasonable in these fancy-schmancy hotels). Every nook and cranny of our bodies was dusty, brown, and in need of soap and hot water. The bathrooms were amazing with solid glass walls that allowed you to sense you were showering out of doors looking at a lovely garden while lathering oneself in fancy unguents. That one could love a shower so much! We gathered our wits to attend a one hour lecture by Doranne, on the area we were to visit next, and then Pat and I took ourselves to our room to have room service and collapse before our very early hour departure tomorrow for the Amber Fort... and an elephant ride.

Arrival in India

I started this India adventure in paper format since I wasn't near computers...will transcribe into blog when computers are available. The start of another adventure on a most important day - a day when America will hopefully turn over a new leaf and chose a president who will take us forward in a totally new direction. While all the polls point to an Obama victory, I am nervous about whether Americans, in the privacy of the voting box, can chose its first black to be our next leader. To chose McCain and especially Palin would be abhorrent...I can't even think about it. But I'll know all when I land in Germany. This is one hell of a long journey, with four different airplanes, and if both myself and my luggage arrive at the same time, I will consider it a minor miracle. November 5 - A.M. Frankfurt Airport - With a three hour layover, I have time to shower, change clothes and stare at German television which tells me that Obama won. None of the details, nothing specific about individual states, but the main point is - he won! This was the best news after an eight hour journey across the pond. My next connection was Turkish airlines - one which I hope not ever to repeat. Their idea of a first class seat to Istanbul is to take the middle seat in a three-across and put a table there for elbows. But the seats are as narrow, the food as lousy, and the service as poor as 'animal class'. And I have the joy of taking this airline on to Delhi. November 6 - Arrival in Delhi at 4:00 a.m. - Turkish Air from Istanbul was a real first class seat - large - but no footrest, lousy service and thus no sleep. Reminded me of flying years ago - shabby but functional. All instructions were given in Turkish or some form of English only discernable by the very fuzziest of minds. If I didn't recognize that now was the time to "store all electronics" or "fasten seat belts" I wouldn't have gotten it through the voice over the speakers. But the main thing: I arrived safely and so did my luggage. Miracle! First impressions at 4:00 a.m.: The smell of burning; the airport could be in Belgium or England; lots of activity and people, considering the time of day; a pall in the air, so thick you could cut it. I was met, as promised and whisked through quiet Delhi to the Hotel Oberoi. Streets were dead; what would take one hour during the day took twenty minutes at best. I was asked by my escort all the private questions Rakesh had warned me about: where is my family? Where is my house? What do I do? Why am I in India? I saw joggers out early (at this point it was 5:30 a.m), and errand people...but the smell of burning and the thick smoke is astounding. I was told that now that it 'is winter', it was people warming their houses - but whether it was fuel, dung or pollution, was hard to know. The Oberoi is just plain swank. ... and that is pleasureable. The bed was soft, and I slept straight through until evening, when I woke, had 'breakfast' and fell back to sleep. So that so far I've seen an airport and my room.

London

May 28th – Wednesday - London Today was a gray and rainy day perfect for maintenance and start up activities. There is a charm to coming back to a familiar city, a familiar hotel (The Chesterfield) and its familiar neighborhood (Mayfair). We know where to go for a bite of breakfast at Shepherd’s Market (the hotel’s being a little too pricey these days with the pound being so strong against the dollar). We know where the laundry is; where to find Boots (the local pharmacy), to purchase important incidentals. And most importantly we know how to find our underground travel passes. This is the magic entry ticket to London – with one simple pass we can get on any tram, bus or subway within the limits of the city and it frees us to be able to be whimsical in our peregrinations. If the feet get too tired to walk another step, hop on a bus for awhile and watch the sites go by while happily sitting down; need to get to a particular intersection, go down into the tube and get there more quickly. The London transit system is really quite remarkable. It looks sad around the edges right now but with the Olympics coming in 2010, the city is frantically working to spiff up all the lines and replace a lot of old track work. It means a bit of inconvenience as one or another line is shut for repairs, and some of the stations looked downright shabby since they’ve removed the tile and are in the process of replacing them, but all in all, it is the most efficient way of getting around. The new thing for us this time is that they’ve created a new ‘oyster card’ for all transit systems – bus, train or tube. The same card works for all modes of transportation and one simply has to top off the fare card with whatever you wish – a certain amount of pounds, or a specific time period. Gone is the original idea of the oyster pass: a picture id in one half of the folded plastic holder (the oyster) and the specific fare ticket which has been purchased on the other half. Now they don’t care about the picture and you don’t insert the fare card in the machine. It’s just one simple magnetic card which you hold over a large orange sensor pad, and presto you’re in the tube or on the bus. The things I truly miss are the wonderful old busses which were on every major thoroughfare - you hopped on the back or simply hung off the back platform until you decided to hop off. (You could even get off between stops if walking proved faster than the bus). They’re done away with those old busses along with the old ticket takers with their machines hanging from their neck strap, entering the amount for your fare and turning the crank to produce a ticket. The machine had this wonderful sound, almost like those old rattles which you turn at the end of a stick. All gone! Modern convenience (and probably security) now means you simply swipe your ‘oyster’ when you get on the bus, and the driver behind his plastic shield is the only official on board. And there’s no hopping off, you wait until the bus driver stops and opens the doors, thank you very much. I feel like an old geezer remembering the ‘good ol’ days. Dinner tonight was a wonderful event. We took the tube to Nottinghill Gate where we met our friend Kathleen Earley at Geals an excellent British fish restaurant. We ‘nattered away’, consumed some great fish (Bob had fresh oysters…the original kind), and were almost the last to leave the restaurant. It is so heart warming to have friends in different places throughout Europe. It breaks up our duet-dining-experience and provides a third person with whom to share the travel experience. It also allows us to catch up with the news of friends, and share a few good laughs. Kathleen as always was vibrant, filled with enthusiasm for life and had her own amusing, articulate way of describing her life with its ups and downs. The evening was over too quickly but she was off the next day to look at roses in France and needed to gather her wits together beforehand. We ‘tubed’ back to the Green Park station and wandered past the homeless people sleeping in doorways along Piccadilly before turning in for the night. May 29 - Thursday - London A rainy London day, which we spent meandering through shops… browsing, but not buying since everything was quite expensive. The one thing I noticed was how many coffee bars have opened. There is the ubiquitous Starbucks but competing with it is Nero, Pret à Manger, and Costa. What happened to tea? Don’t the British honor their tradition? And how can all these coffee houses make it. They are literally one next to the other. We also noticed that Tesco and Sainsbury have moved into local neighborhoods where they didn’t seem to be beforehand – especially around Mayfair. I’m not sure what causes this phenomenon. The small little shops, run often by Pakistani, seem to be incorporated into these larger chains which provide a consistency of product, but take away some of the charm of the hit and miss. Always up for a bit of live theater, we went to see The Jersey Boys, about Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. ABSOLUTELY MAGNIFICENT!! The acting, the singing, the pace. And Bob who can usually spot a flaw in the technical aspects came away delighted that he spotted none. The way they used lighting, sound, and stage/prop movement was ‘spot on’. The entire audience, most in their 50’s or 60’s could hum along to every song which represented their youth, and were encouraged by the actors to clap at times and at others to stand up and dance. It was a tour de force and one understands why it’s gotten such rave reviews on both sides of the Atlantic. It is one which I would gladly go back and see again to catch all the things I missed the first time. We bounced back to the hotel on a cloud of music playing in our brains and were remembering when and where we’d first heard some of the tunes. May 30th - Friday - London We can’t go to London without making a pilgrimage to the Imperial War Museum. It is a touch point for us on every visit. It is one of the best designed museums of its kind. It appeals to all ages, and on every floor there are both permanent and changing exhibits, any and all of which make one want to stop and explore. Because the newest of the James Bond novels (written by Sebastian Faulk) was out, they chose to have two different exhibits to celebrate 007. One, for which one had to pay an extra fee (the museum is otherwise free), was focused on the life of Ian Fleming…how his own life was the basis of his books, and his character of James Bond was based, not just a little on his own life. He was a bon vivant who loved the high life, and the world of the ladies, and was himself a spy in his majesty’s secret service. His works were written once a year from his home in the Caribbean where he lived with his wife. The books were written in order to support his life style and all the books, translated into all manner of languages, were on display. In addition there were many exhibits associated with the movies made over the past 45+ years - the actors, the gadgets, the vicious enemies and lots of posters. The next exhibit which was free, dealt with the real spies of England who have served in the secret service since the 1800’s. It showed the real gadgets used by spies, the real names of those who spied, and who were counter-spies and it gave lots of detail about the lives of those who dared to take on this very dangerous work. I was pleased to see that quite a few women served as spies, but that many unfortunately lost their lives as a result. It was a great exhibit, but incredibly dense with data and exhibits which were in a semi-darkened series of rooms which made it quite difficult to read or to see. Some of these same exhibits had been used when we were here eight years ago, but were freshened up to be tied into the James Bond mania. Many historians took exception that a serious museum such as this would ‘stoop’ to put on such a ‘glitzy’ un-historical and inappropriate Bond exhibit, but the effect has been magnificent. Young boys (and their parents) coming in to see the Bond exhibit must walk through other exhibits to get to their objective which may cause them to stop as they pass tanks, guns and equipment from real wars. And the museum store, where we always end our own visit, was absolutely chock-a-block with young people. It may not be obviously appropriate for a historical museum to cater to current whims, but it certainly is not hurting the bottom line of the museum which, after all, is as important as its mission. Who knows how many of these young people stepping into one of the other exhibit spaces doesn’t learn a bit more history than they knew when they walked in… and who knows how long it will be until they come back to this museum, which is a bit out of the way, located in a less commercial part of London. (The museum is located in the former insane asylum known as Bedlam…hence the origin of that common term). Having made our pilgrimage we returned to our hotel, had a quick change and were off to the Old Vic, to see Pygmalion by G.B. Shaw. The character of Higgins was played by Tim Pigot-Smith, who was the hideously nasty British colonel in the BBC-TV series Jewel In the Crown…and Bridey’s older brother in Brideshead Revisited. It took me a while to get that hideous Jewel in the Crown image out of my head, but once I did he made a magnificent Higgins – enthusiastic, sloppy, child-like, and arrogant – covering the whole stage with his lanky body. The new young actress who played Eliza had gotten rave reviews but we found her somewhat stiff and uncomfortable in the role, but then what do we know. It was great to see traditional old theater – no microphones, no electronic gadgets, just pure acting on a stage, done with consummate skill. In two nights we had seen two very different stage productions and both were a success. London theater never fails to delight us and while the costs keep getting higher, we will always go whenever there is a show that catches our fancy. May 31 – Saturday – London In a quest for Whittard’s Afternoon Blend tea, we headed out of the hotel on a sunny morning with umbrellas in hand. London has given us glimmers of sunshine, but every day has ended in rain, and this one did not fail on that count. We walked through Hyde Park with all the other tourists, and Londoners, who had a day to enjoy the sun. By the Serpentine, people were eating ice creams, roller blading, bicycling, walking, jogging – a paean to spring. We walked over towards Lancaster Gate, my old neighborhood when I worked here in 2001/2, then we hopped on a bus to go down Oxford and Regent Streets to find the tea. The streets were jammed with shoppers, the traffic hardly moved, and by the time we had purchased the tea we were so exhausted we just crawled onto another bus going along Piccadilly and headed back to the hotel to rest before dinner. We have not had many fancy meals on this trip mainly because our erratic schedules and daily patterns often left us hungry at 3:00 p.m. but not hungry enough at 8:00 p.m. to sit down to a formal meal. In fact I’d say that on this trip mostly we’ve eaten two meals a day – breakfast and something in the mid-afternoon – call it lunch or dinner. But this night we wanted a lovely meal at our favorite French restaurant in Shepherds Market – Boudin Blanc. So we skipped lunch and saved ourselves for an 8:00 reservation in this very packed, but excellent restaurant. As always, the food and wine were perfect and we ended our evening with drinks in the lobby bar of our hotel where the drinks are excellent, the atmosphere very British, and the piano player isn’t bad either. June 1 – Sunday – London. Another day that started with sunshine. We hadn’t had a chance to examine the South Bank of London – the new trendy area of the city, so we hopped on a tube which took us to Westminster, and Big Ben; and from there we walked towards the new Globe Theater built not too far from the Tate Modern museum. This walk took us past a whole series of new tourist sites: – the Eye – the HUGE ferris wheel with its glass-enclosed pods holding twenty people per pod. It was built to honor the millennium and has become the new tourist attraction because on a clear day one can get magnificent views of the city from a height that is breath taking. – The Tate Modern Museum built on the site of an old factory where the out-door exhibits are almost as exciting as those inside. – The Millennium Bridge, which spans the Thames between the Tate Modern and the older part of the City. – The OXO tower with its trendy shops and restaurants which draws in the young yuppies of London – The new Globe Theater, built to be a replica of the old, where modern productions of Shakespeare are provided next to a new Swan Restaurant. – And the whole South Bank esplanade that runs along the river. Today the esplanade presented a human circus. As in Barcelona, there were frozen human statues painted in silver, gold, blue or green, who for a small coin put in their begging pot would suddenly come to life and perform some actions; there were people walking their dogs from the smallest rat-sized creature to full sized Great Danes. And weaving amidst this were thousands of virtuous people taking a Walk for Aids. All walkers had been provided a t-shirt and a whistle to identify them, but some had defied this traditional look and were dressed in all manner of costume. Mostly men in drag dressed as all characters from the Wizard of Oz; or dressed as prom queens; or simply as outrageous characters. We stopped for an authentic Greek lunch, and watched this parade of humanity for hours as we sipped Mythos beer, ate tzaziki, taramasalata, and kalamari… and alternated between having coats on to protect us from the wind off the river, to stripping down to shirt-sleeves as the sun broiled us. What a great way to end our time in London. This whole area which only a few years ago was a sad and un-reconstructed area has now become the hip place to be with new apartment complexes, museums, restaurants, theaters and parks. Bob said it was almost Disney-like, which was possibly a bit extreme, but compared to what we had seen over the last twenty years of visiting this city, it certainly is a welcome change. And so, the land portion of our trip has drawn to a close and we set sail tomorrow for New York. It’s been a grand trip filled with new discoveries, old familiar haunts, wonderful friends both old, and new, and enough train and boat journeys to satisfy our love of travel. But as we pack for the last time those same clothes we’ve been wearing over and over again, we are ready to go home. Personally I don’t care if I wear these clothes ever again. And, as for packing and unpacking suitcases - not for awhile, thank you very much. We’ve agreed that the next visit of this duration will probably have us settling into some location and using it as a base for multi-day trips. It could be southern France or northern Italy, or who knows where else, but I think two months of trains and multiple cities is not likely to be repeated. It wasn’t the duration which got to us both, it was the constant move from hotel to hotel, train to train, city to city; remembering where the bathroom was in relation to the bed; conquering the transport systems; finding the good restaurants; seeing the sites. When we planned this jaunt we thought we were being fairly leisurely, and compared to many, we were. But I now understand why the boys when they made the trip around the world had to be young. Even with all their comfort, their porters, their luxurious travel, it had to be wearing to keep moving from place to place …and not just physically wearing. It can be exhausting to keep one’s mind, never mind one’s body alert and ready for new experiences. To keep up that eager enthusiasm and anticipation for the next new place, to engage each new site with vigor and to absorb all the new data is both physically and mentally exhausting. There were days when all we wanted to do was read a book, have a meal and stare at the world, but when you know you only have a week in a city and there’s so much to see, how can one ‘waste’ a day. Finding the balance is the key. I think Bob and I did magnificently well, but both of us will be quite ready to curl up in Peacham for a few months with suitcases securely hidden in the basement and our brains turning happily to squash. But before that we have one more lovely adventure aboard “our” Queen Mary 2, and the last chapters of this Voyage of Discovery.

Last days in Berlin

May 25

Today was a wonderful day of adventure as we went underground for two separate tours presented by Berliner Unterwelten E.V. (Berlin underworld) - the same organization that had provided the exhibit of Germania yesterday. Our first tour in the morning was called Dunkle Welten (Dark World) which was a tour of a still-existing bunker built during WW II to be used by the citizens of Berlin in times of air raid attacks. It was most eerie. Our tour group of English speakers gathered at the entry of a currently-working U-Bahn station. We were met by our tour guide a wonderfully energetic Greek woman married to a German citizen. She unlocked a non-descript doorway which we hadn’t noticed, we walked in, and presto we had been taken back sixty-eight years to the time of the Third Reich.

Nothing had been touched – the walls, the signs, the paint, the stairways. We were immediately warned not to touch the walls, especially where it was painted yellow – this was a phosphorescent paint which had the amazing quality that in perfect darkness it still showed itself light. Thus it was used to guide people to doorways and stairwells, but it is incredibly poisonous and it was suggested that “licking the walls” would not be good for our health, and that a good scrub of our hands later would also be useful. What a beginning for a tour.

Next we were shown two signs: Frauen Abort and Herren Abort. While normally the word “toilet” would have been used instead of Abort, during the war no words which were derivative of French or English were to be used in public places. So the word “Abort” which is derived from Latin and means to rid oneself, was used instead. We were then led down three levels into the depth of the shelter. It turns out that this was not built uniquely for the war, but rather they took space which had existed between the ground level and the trains below and turned it into a three-level bunker. The citizens at that time were told that this was perfectly safe, but in actuality they would have been just as safe had they stayed in their own basements.

Naturally the military had fortified bunkers which would withstand a hit, but then, what were a few citizens more or less. The group - Berliner Unterwelten - have a long-term lease from the train authorities to use this bunker which is one of the deepest in Berlin. Their organization has cleaned-up and resurrected this site borrowing pieces and objects from other places to help to tell the a more complete story of life in a German bunker. Some of the pieces of information which we found interesting were: Every German during the war was asked to purchase a blue light which was not inexpensive. It was not able to be spotted from the air, nor by the British cloud-penetrating radar. When people would come down to the shelters they would wear all their jewelry and fine clothing in layers, and put water and food in the suitcases which they carried. Thus the few photographs of people in the underground appear to show very well dressed citizens. People who died in the bunker died not from gas attacks, but from the dirty and polluted air shared by others; the constrained space which led people to commit suicide or to go mad; and suffocation when the air got too dense to breath. At the end of the war women would go into the Women’s Abort and break the mirror glass and commit suicide rather than be raped by the incoming Russian troops. The mirrors were removed and women hung themselves from the water pipes. Originally the rooms were designed to hold bunk beds and appropriate places to sleep since it was assumed they would not need to be used very often. As the war progressed beds were removed except for new mothers and children (those who were to procreate the master race), and people simply sat on hard benches, crammed together in very tight spaces. We were asked to sit in such a room with the lights out and imagine sitting there with the fetid air; the people crying or moaning; people going to the bathroom in the room if they couldn’t get out; the coughing of people who were sick, and the sound of planes overhead. Not a pretty story.

We were shown objects that would have been below – games for children showing the victorious German army conquering the world, and children living in a happier future. We were shown an example of an object not from the bunker, but from a factory where there was a card-data-base of all slave workers assigned to the factory. This material was helpful after the war to track the location of many missing people.

We were shown a bunker that was used by an official of the government which was of course quite nice – table, Bavarian carved wooden chairs, and a real place to sleep. We were shown what happens if you put a person against one of the phosphorous-painted walls and shine a bright light at him. When you turned off the lights, the shadow of the person still existed as if painted on the wall…and it would remain that way for many hours. It ensured that none of us were touching those walls. The best ventilation in the bunker occurred when a train went by below – a beach ball which lay inside an airshaft would suddenly rise up with the gusts of air provided as the trains passed by and that would be all the fresh air that came through.

Since all the men were at war, women were left to do a lot of hard labor in the city of Berlin. This included cleaning bricks from fallen buildings so that they could be re-used. And even today when an old building is torn down, this patchwork of bricks is still visible. One very sad story we learned was that during the war Ukraine citizens arrested when Germany went East, were used as slaves in Berlin. When the war ended and the Russians came into Berlin, these same people were treated as traitors and collaborators and send to Siberia. Thus they had no life, and only recently have their families been compensated for their misery.

We learned that like in Belgium there remains under the ground a good deal of unexploded ammunition. When Potsdammer Platz was rebuilt it took special crews to clear the ammunition, and only recently during excavations, bombs exploded and killed construction workers. The whole experience was chilling. To think that this still existed, as if in a time capsule, and probably other unexcavated sites do as well. It was truly going back to another time and when one finally came out again into the train station it took a minute to shake off sixty-eight years and realize that all was well and safe.

No sooner were we above ground than we were met for our second tour called U-Bahn, Bunker und Kalter Krieg (cold war). This tour was led by an Ecuadorian woman whose last name was Morales. She was less emotional than our Greek guide, but very dramatic in her presentation. As Bob said, she had the character of a teacher who knew what she needed to tell us, how she wanted it told, and when it was necessary to be dramatic or stern. This time, our tour guide led us out into the sunshine through the square of Gesundbrunnen to a non-descript cement structure covered in vines where there was an above ground entrance into another former WW II bunker which was to be used during the cold war in case of nuclear attack.

Once inside, with the door slammed behind us, we stepped back forty-five years to the time when East Germany was controlled by the communists. Our tour guide sat us down on benches, asked us where we were all from, and then gave us a preliminary history of the cold war and why the bunker was constructed. Our tour was made up of a school group from Denmark, and people from Spain, Canada, France, Germany, Poland and Belgium. We were the only Americans in the crowd. This tour had less dramatic objects to show, but was as chilling. Not only was the tour about the usage of the underground as a place to hide from nuclear attack, but also it was about the use of the underground, as well as the sewer systems that were used by people to try and escape when the wall had been erected in 1962.

The daring and frightening risks that people took to escape were told in chilling detail by our guide. She explained how the East German guards tricked people who were up to their wastes in sewage. As the escapee arrived at various barriers they would snip the wire or saw the bars, but inside these bars would be a trip-wire which signaled people above ground. As the escapee arose on what he thought was a safe exit, there were the guards ready to pick him off. At one point rather than shooting them on the spot, they were hauled off to Leipzig, where they were guillotined. A new and most frightening piece of data. This went on until the 1980’s, and only recently has the address in Leipzig been discovered.

This series of nuclear shelters had been rebuilt in the early ‘70s by the French government (we were in the former French Zone) at a time when Soviet ‘saber-rattling’ threatened an attack on Berlin. The complex had been filled with tons of pre-packaged food, water, and medical supplies. The food was to be cycled every three years to ensure it was safe, but of course, some creative entrepreneurs decided to sell the ‘old food’ which resulted in a wave of food poisoning until this little business was closed. What was eerie was when our group had to go from one underground bunker to another, we simply poked out of another non-descript door into a modern-day U-Bahn station , took the train one stop, got off, and poked back into another non-descript door. A million Berliners must go past these doors every day and yet there is nothing to tell people what lies behind them. It leads one to wonder just how many such doors and hiding places still exist below ground.

After we passed through the second non-descript door in the wall of the Parkstrasse station, a huge, thick, air-tight door was opened. Once our group was all inside, the door was sealed, and for a minute we were in a small room caught between two doors. (Not good for those with claustrophobia). In case of an attack, people would have stripped off all clothing, and been sprayed with de-contaminating chemicals. Then a second hermetically sealed door on the opposite wall was opened and we went through into a large medical facility. The entry room where we had first entered was obviously also where one would be sealed off and checked to see how ‘radio-active’ you were before being led to a deeper and cleaner room. In America there were places just as secretive, such as the ones in the mountains of Virginia, which were meant to hold vast amounts of VIP’s and government officials during a time of nuclear war, but I certainly have never seen them. All I remember in the 1950’s was our famous air-raid alarm exercises in Hartford Avenue Elementary School: all children were led into the basement, told to face the wall with our head against our folded arms. And we would be saved. Right!!

As our tour guide pointed out, the disaster in Chernobyl illustrated just how impossible it would be to survive a direct nuclear attack. What I didn’t know was that the USSR tried to hide the impact of Chernobyl by taking those who had been affected and shipping them to Russia where they were hidden from view. Only when the number of affected grew too large to hide did the real impact become known to the world. We came away from our second tour equally impressed. We have seen Churchill’s bunker in London, but it was prettied-up and made into an historic site. These two tours in Berlin were raw and very real. Nothing was made pretty and the horror of both periods in German history made our re-entry into the modern day Germany just a wee bit weird.

We headed to a wonderful square where we sat at a restaurant named Rocco and talked about what we had seen while in the background there was a weird trio made up of a trumpet, bongo drums and an accordion. Thoroughly back in the 21st century and quite foot-weary we returned to the Hotel Adlon to bone up on the sites we were going to see the next day.

May 26

We awoke and ordered our room-service breakfast while watching a HUGE bike race which went past our hotel. They let the stars start out alone as they do in all races, but then for the next hour, in waves of 100 riders at a time, they peeled away from the starting area, went under the Brandenburg Gate and off down Unter Den Linden. It was a sunny day and everyone, spectators and riders alike, was in high spirits. Once the race had passed and traffic was moving again, we took off to visit the sites along Wilhelmstrasse – mostly small signs indicating where some significant building had once been. The only building standing is the old Ministry of Aviation (Luftwaffe headquarters) which is now the Finance Ministry. In its first incarnation it was part of the Third Reich; during the GDR it had a huge mural added lauding the power of the state and strong healthy communist workers… and now it simply collects taxes from the citizenry.

Not too far from this huge fortress-like-building is an outdoor display located at the basement ruins of what was once the Gestapo Headquarters, also running along a last remaining segment of the Berlin Wall. It is called the Topography of Terror and provided a photographic time-line of the Third Reich from start to finish. It was housed under a shed-roof along the cellar prison walls of the now-demolished building. This seems to be a temporary location for the exhibit until a proper museum is built. It seemed to repeat a lot of what one had already seen in books, other museums or sites and so we spent only a moderate amount of time. But it was quite crowded for a Sunday morning with all manner of curious people. At this point most Germans were born at the end of the war or after and I truly wonder how many museums need to exist to remind everyone of this hideous time. It certainly is important that no one forget it, but I somehow think that in about 25 years, once the Wall itself is history, that all these sites will be no more than a small plaque on a wall similar to all the plaques one sees in other cities.

Germany certainly needed to go through some form of cathartic atonement, but what is the right measure of remembrance? To cap off our own museum tour, we went in the afternoon to the Jewish Museum of Berlin. It is the largest museum of its type anywhere and covers the entire history of Judaism from the middle ages to the present. The building itself presents a story. One enters through an old Baroque museum of what was once the old Jewish Musuem, where one goes through a scanner, buys tickets and an audio tour on a real iPod. Then one goes into the new building built by Daniel Libeskind. The building, which was opened in 2001 is a story in itself with its austere walls, jagged window treatments, confusing layout and threatening mood. It took quite a few wrong turns to find oneself at the exhibits of interest and this too seemed intentional. Once we had found the main exhibit which follows a time-line progression, we found it very interesting. The exhibits are made up of video, photographs, memorabilia, Q &A quizzes, and text. Depending on one’s curiosity one could spend an hour or simply 5 minutes in each time period. Bob and I went quickly to the displays of Jews in Germany in the 1800’s and onward because that was the period I could relate to more easily.

There was a very interesting exhibit which explained that since Jews were not accepted into many parts of city life that they chose to convert to Christianity hoping that this would open more doors. But as the exhibit made clear, conversion left one neither an accepted Christian nor a practicing Jew, but simply a converted ‘three-day’ Jew who might remember the three holidays of the year. This is what Daddy and Walter’s family did and the exhibits showed that for a brief period there were opportunities in government, medicine, academia as well as the ‘traditional careers for Jews which were trade and finance. But this was a brief period, and in the 1930’s it all ended in Germany. It is the period that I think all my family remembered when the life of a middle-class Jew was almost normal. But as privileges were taken away and people were stripped of property and career, the message was quite clear. It leaves me again with the question of why my family waited so long. Unfortunately, I’ll never know the answers since all those who have that information have passed on and I didn’t know that I should have asked the questions sooner.

Accompanying us through our visit to the museum was Sylvie Ivery, the secretary of Frau Keinen, our lawyer in Berlin. She and her ten year old son had never been to the museum and since Sylvie works for a law firm which is trying to make reparations to Jews, I think she felt this would be an opportunity to learn things herself. After three+ hours we left filled with knowledge and headed out for a beer before parting ways. We learned that Sylvie had lived in California, Australia and England at different times, and thus had acquired quite excellent English, though she herself had been brought up in eastern Berlin. She told some stories of life under the communists…some which were down-right chilling. Bob and I went off for an early dinner where I had my last opportunity for white asparagus – this time with new potatoes and hollandaise sauce and then we headed to the hotel amidst all the other Sunday evening strollers. May 27 – Last day in Berlin We are almost ‘touristed-out’. We had only one appointment in the late afternoon but we could hardly think of what else we wanted to do. Amidst a combination of travel weariness, sore feet and a kind of malaise we chose to visit the huge department store of Berlin – Ka De We – eat a late lunch along the K’damm, and then head to the lawyers office for a last visit with Frau Keinen, Herr Von Trott and Dr. Monika Tatzkow.

It was an appropriate ending to our trip since it was the work of these three that allowed me to write and publish the book of the boy’s journey, and to make this trip itself. They summarized all the work that has gone on over the last six years tracking down the properties of various members of my family, I thanked them profusely for all the work which they had done on our behalf, and after a formal  'Lawyer-Hour', we left for our hotel to pack and get ready for our very early wake-up tomorrow at 4:45 am.

May 28th – Berlin to London

Other than the fact that neither the wake up call or my alarm worked, things went well. We woke later than planned, raced around like mad people, and were at the Hauptbahnhof with time to spare. While Bob guarded luggage I scurried around for a carry-away breakfast for the train. And off we went. Our last train trip with two changes in Cologne and Brussels… and I think, as Bob said, we’re ‘trained-out’. We counted that on this trip we’ve been on 17 different trains, hauling luggage on and off platforms, and I think it may be awhile until we’re ready for the next adventure. I would never have wanted to do this with airplanes, but next time it will be less luggage, and perhaps a hired butler to do the heavy lifting. We arrived at St. Pancras station, hopped into a cab, and voila – we’re in London for a few days of theater and shopping before heading back to The Queen for our sail home.