The Perfect Day

After several days of sunbathing, we wrench ourselves off the beach and head out for an adventure. Originally planning to tour Old Goa, a section of town with numerous buildings and churches, we decide instead to visit Fort Tiracol, in the neighboring state of Maharahstra, as recommended by some Goan natives. Rising early and sharing a small pot of French pressed organic Indian coffee, we straddle the scooter and set off for an unknown expedition. The spontaneity thrills us, the excitement of uncharted territory intrigues as we travel through picturesque scenes. I look out into the endless blue horizon of sea, a shade darker than the sky, so soothing and inviting. A quick turn of my head and I am staring at tiny villages and towns bustling with people, all surrounded by the blossoming life of trees and undulations of grassy fields. Families walk to church, aging women sell fresh fish on street corners, random cows graze along the road. I hold onto Sebastian, squeeze his ribs tightly every time we hit a bump. My cheek squishes as I rest my head on the nape of his neck. A gentle kiss as he drives, I taste the sweet combination of coconut and salt, remnants of our long days at the beach.

We ride for the better part of an hour until we reach a jetty at Kerim beach. A free ferry awaits, a rusted royal blue double storied boat that smoothly transports us across the Terekhol River, separating the northern most section of Goa from the bordering state of Maharahstra. A brief uphill ride, we reach our destination, Fort Tiracol. Through the black iron gates, towering over a green manicured lawn and a fence of blooming trees is the immense 16th century structure. Perched hilltop to overlook the Arabian Sea, Fort Tiracol is an astounding architectural achievement. With its scaling heights, this former defense sentinel is in glorious isolation. Invaded by the Portuguese, they rebuilt it in the late 1700s in defense for Goa and later, this stronghold aided freedom fighters during the Goan liberation. Currently, it serves as a heritage hotel and a multi-cuisine restaurant.

Through a dark marble hallway we emerge into a charming courtyard, with the century old Church of St. Anthony, opened only on rare occasions, situated in the center. The entire edifice is bright, pure white with trim of ochre yellow and midnight black. Climbing large steps, we reach the restaurant, which serves authentic Goan and Portuguese food as well as its infamous, majestic views. Completely awestruck, never did a sight appear so perfect. The eternal blue sea, alive and rippling, reflects the sun’s brilliance. Waves create uneven sandy shores of foaming white suds. Full and towering, curving palm trees with massive green leaves stir in the swirling breeze. There is not a single cloud in the sky to interrupt the incessant overflow of blue. Sebastian and I are dumbfounded, small in the presence of such sheer magnificence. Wonderment abounds as we step into ramparts, peeking out little portholes at the panoramic seascapes.



We sit on the veranda, at a glass table under a pointed edge umbrella and share a deliciously light brunch. Fluffy egg omelets, fried bananas, and coffee savored as we relish the spectacular view. In amazement, I watch the Terekhol River flood into the Arabian Sea, merging without end or beginning, an ongoing flow of water. Despite the old gun-enclosures, the stark white walls intensifies the structure, seemingly more pure and tranquil. The most exquisite thing is the silence, the piercing, beautiful lack of noise that ever grazes my ears. I am too far away to hear the breaking waves or the children laughing playfully. There are no squawking birds, barking dogs, blaring horns, or human speech which plague every moment of every day. Incessant chatter is stopped and what remains is an energetic stillness, conveying immense depth, a hushing peace. We stay long after the meal is finished, drinking in the sublime experience.

Enthralled, we continue on our journey through Maharashtra to the Ganesh temple at the Redi fort. Not found in any of the travel books we have been pouring over, it too, was suggested by Goan locals. Almost lost, we attempt to follow maps of unnamed streets and hidden roads. Luckily, with the guidance of a friendly pedestrian we follow a dirt road in the backcountry land until Sanjay stops us, a mid-30s man with a warm smile dressed in a red flannel shirt and beige shorts, motioning us to park our bike and follow him. It seems a bit peculiar, heading into the forest alone with this stranger, but I trust my instincts and begin walking. After a short distance, we climb over a crumbling wall to visit the Ganesh temple. It is nothing as I expected, looking more like a deformed rock than the infamous elephant god. Beyond closer expectation, I make out the hands and trunk set deep into the stone. This statue was found in the Redi mines after one of the workers dreamed about it and asked for the mine to be searched. When the mines were eventually dug, the Ganesh idol was uncovered and has become a holy sight for Hindu worshippers.

Sanjay suggests we hike up to the Redi fort that overlooks the appropriately named Paradise Beach. As we begin the ascent, I find a long branch begging to be used as my walking stick. We trail Sanjay as he leads us through the decrepit fortress, untangling thickets of brush to clear a walkway. From the exterior walls into the central compound of the fort, we navigate the once mighty bastion, which has now devolved into a marriage of nature and crumbling human construction. Banyan trees hug the walls, creating webs of branches in varied directions. An empty, steep well causes my stomach to turn as I cautiously peer down over 200 meters. We duck under low curving doorways, leading us into old rooms where soldiers stood guard. I sense that people have died here, for we feel the sacred, hallowed ground under our feet. Eventually, we arrive at the fort’s apex, which provides us with the spectacular view of Paradise beach. Sharing an unripe green mango, we stare out into yet another perfect scene. Upon the descent, Sebastian and I both agree that the charm of the Redi fort is that it is left alone, allowing nature’s growth to inhabit the once functioning and operational edifice. The government does not invest money to clean it up or restore it to the original state. Rather, it remains untouched, a jeweled secret for only a select few to enjoy.












Before heading back to the beaches of Goa, we stroll along the gentle shore of Paradise beach. To my great surprise, it is littered with shells, ranging from tiny intricate spirals once carried on hermit crabs’ backs to smooth white halves of a broken clam’s home. Immediately, I start combing the sands, creating an overflow of treasures in my cupped hand. I am taken back instantly to the annual family vacation I took as a child to St. Thomas. I recall it so vividly. My dad rests on a lounge chair, eyes hidden behind brown shades, hands behind his head cradling it as he sleeps. My mom tans while reading a big, thick hardcover novel. My brother swims in the ocean, snorkels all afternoon looking at fish. I spend hours on the beach under my terrycloth visor, protected by a huge white t-shirt my mother insists I wear to avoid sunburn. I collect countless buckets full of shells, big and small alike, in all shapes and colors. I set aside a special pail for my favorite ones, the really great finds.


And now, as I squat down in between my legs, a world away from the Caribbean where this long lost hobby began, I am a child again, digging and searching for the ocean’s jewels. I gasp at every great discovery, running into the water to wash of the traces of sand. I find an old, crushed plastic cup and begin piling up my riches, knowing full well that I am bringing these back to New York. Their new home will be my apartment, a reminder of a time I quickly have forgotten, yet able to recall with such love and clarity.

Thankful to Sanjay, we climb back on the scooter to return to our shack. Initially, I am reluctant to sacrifice my adored beach but the adventure proves to fulfill my love for unplanned, organic quests into unfamiliar soils. I am reminded that stepping into the unknown, trusting the mysterious direction I embark upon will always be rewarded with unforgettable gifts, memories I will cherish when I think back on this amazing Indian journey.

Beach

Beach I

The beach speaks to me
Shares the day’s secrets
Toes wedged into sand
I am reminded of the universe
With its infinite beauty
And infinite possibility
Speckles of sand
Poured from my delicate grasp
Drift into the wind
Carried away
To another place and time
Crashing waves
Feel like the waves of my heart
Of my being
Wilding slapping the shore
Each one different
Never the same beat
The sun nourishes
Feeds my insatiable appetite for warmth
I lay open to receive
Winds caress my cheek
The sweet divine lingers
Thoughts float away
Like clouds in the expansive sky
Not holding on
Looseness in my body
Stillness in my breath
Heart gaping like the sea’s waters
I am floating....
Floating.....
Floating away
Drifting into a dream
Where truth is revealed
Where nothing exists
But the soul’s connectedness



Beach II

Walk out into the sand
Stare out into the azure horizon
Be moved, in awe
At the grandeur of God
His creation of life
Blessed to feel the grainy sands
Burning saltwater in eyes
Lifted by the sweeping shores
Gliding atop eternal waters
Vastness surrounds
Drunk on sunshine
The mind empties
The heart explodes



Beach III

Life’s problems can be solved
By sitting at the beach
Meditative sound of water’s swell
Sunshine on skin
Seduction of sand to play
No worrisome burdens
Nothing to do
But sit
Be still and silent
Drawing in the salty smells
Answers revealed
Without effort
Without the mind’s fruitless searching
God speaks directly
Through the waves
Crashing onto the crooked edges of shore
White foamy bubbles left behind
Covering tiny rocks and seashell bits
Pure, alive existence felt
The simplicity of the moment
Sit
Be still and silent
The beach with answer

Shackin' Up at Yab Yum

We arrive….to the beach that is! Fitting with this trip, my heart and mind explode once again by the splendor of our next hotel, Yab Yum. This eco-friendly lodge is located in northern Goa, a short drive from our last residence, situated in the fishing village of Ashwen. Down a rocky, steep hill, we are confronted by huge wooden doors, which open upon our arrival into an enchanting emerald land. A magical breeze ripples through the overgrowth of leaves. Coolness touches my skin for the first time in India, as I stroll under the lush grooves of banana and coconut trees. My flip-flop feet melt into soft white sands, as the sun coats everything with a radiant shimmer. Numerous dome-shaped dwellings and little white cottages connected by short pathways, dot this magical world. Crashing waves are heard over the rolling dunes. Sebastian and I are lead to our new home, one of the domes at the edge of the property, constructed of natural, locally harvested resources of lava blocks, palm leaves, mud and sand. Outside the shack sits a small wooden table covered by a coral pink tablecloth and two matching chairs, positioned perfectly in the afternoon light. Suspended peacefully between solid stems of bark hangs a blue, flying carpet hammock, one of my most favorite things and something I mentioned to Sebastian months ago. I am grateful he remembers. A silver bowl of coldwater waits at the bottom step, reminding us to rinse our sand coated feet before entering.

Up two steps, through miniature doors with rounded edges, I brush aside the hanging ivory cloth curtains and enter the large circular room. It is purple, Crayola crayon purple. The color saturates the floor, sitting area, and the lower half of the walls. The upper portions that merge into a spherical ceiling are panels of braided coconut tree leaves, functioning as natural skylights, allowing sunbeams to filter through the tiny cervices. Several large windows create a bright airiness balanced out by the strength and sturdiness of the structure. A large, hard bed rests on a platform, enclosed by a mosquito net secured to different parts of the hut. A moderate size bathroom, with a western-style toilet and hot shower, lay behind a mirrored door. A white paper latern serves as a chandelier and rocks gently with the swirling zephyr. The room is equipped with a small table made of tree bark, a few shelves stocked with matches, candles and incense, two bamboo mats, and some extra lounging pillows.
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Like playful children, we scamper around the room, peering out the windows and climbing under the mosquito net. We rock in the hammock, gratefully use the bathroom, and unpack some of our belongings. Discovering the treasure of a table fan, we sit in front of the rotating blades and relish the cool breeze, something that we have been denied the past few nights. We drench ourselves, unmoving, careful not to disturb the airstream. Pleased, Sebastian and I rove through the grounds along the path leading to the beach. A few steps and my heart’s pace quickens. Vast sands, sprawling seas and a low setting ginger sun surround us. There is but a few souls lingering, some on reclining chairs, others walking languidly at the shore’s edge. I am jolted by the emptiness of the coast, its lack of crowds and noise yet simultaneously, feel grateful it is such. After three weeks of travel, of city hopping and exciting ventures, I feel eager to bask in the sun, to color my skin a darker shade. Thoughts turn to thick pina coladas with paper umbrellas and pineapple wedges sipped over a good read, of colorful bikinis worn under swathing sarongs, behind a large pair of movie star shades. I anticipate the long lengthy hours of beach days, of time spent drifting in and out of catnaps, a brief dips in the ocean water to cool off. I take a breath deeply, filling my lungs with the salty, dense air and let the unwinding begin.

Anjuna Adventures

For a few days during the trip, we stay in Anjuna, Goa, a small beach town where our hotel is located. Excited to explore, we rent a scooter, dull gold with an upbeat horn and enough room for Sebastian and I to sit comfortably. It is the fastest, cheapest and most popular form of transportation, especially among residents. Rickshaws are rare and the occasional cab appears too big for the narrow, snaking streets. We test out the bike as well as the local community, driving around, stopping at roadside shops and restaurants.

There is a definite vibe emanating from the combination of European ravers, long term hippies, midrange tourists and New-Ager baby boomers. We sense a condescending, almost standoff energy. Since we are not part of the inner circle, they do not acknowledge us in any way. Our smiles are unreturned. The friendliness and eagerness to talk and connect yield no response. We, apparently, are outsiders. What a stark difference from the love and acceptance I feel from the Indian people, who are not only curious, but also warm, welcoming, and friendly. Ironically, the vast majority of people inhabiting this place are white, not natives. They have no more right to enjoy Goa than anyone else and yet they exude such entitlement, possessive ownership of the land and lifestyle, not accepting anyone who does not wear raggedy, drooping clothes with knotty, unwashed hair. For a bunch of peace loving people, they definitely fail to show such emotions. There is also a flagrant drug culture here, permeating everything and everyone, causing a lethargic, muffled mentality and dawdling way of life. Everyone seems spaced out, burnt out, or high on some substance, despite their interests in yoga, vegetarianism, and meditation.

Sebastian and I refuse to let the low energy of unfriendliness dampen our spirits, so we become friends with the guests staying at our hotel. Since it is a very intimate place, with the communal pool and shared meals, we have numerous opportunities to interact. Andrea and Cory, two Canadians working in the public health industry, are on a trip from Mumbai for an international conference on cigarette smoking. They decided to fly to Goa for a mini vacation while in India. Both married and Cory with two children, they share great stories full with laughter, shock and jovialness. It is refreshing to meet interesting people with a similar sense of humor. Alex and Lauren, a late-20s couple from England, are on a month long trip to India, taking a break from their careers in the music industry. Similar to us, they loosely planned their adventure, exploring an array of different places. It is interesting to swap stories, great finds, and suggestions about this amazing country, comparing cities, foods, and experiences. Lastly, we acquaint ourselves with Allison, a mid-30s Scotland native serving as an ambassador in Kabul. Very unassuming and intelligent, she is obviously battle-tested, speaking of her bulletproof body amour and escapes to bomb shelters. Sebastian, as the group’s event planner, selects a local restaurant, aptly called Sublime, for a fantastic dinner of good food, drinks and conversation. From all different parts of the world, with all of our different reasons for being in India, as well as our varied backgrounds and beliefs, we are able to connect, to relate to each other, laughing as if we had been friends for years. There exists no separation, no boundaries at this international encounter. What an extraordinary gift traveling is, meeting and sharing with people from all over the globe, who we would have never met otherwise, planting the seeds for future friendships.

We practice yoga every morning, attending the class held at the Yoga Temple at the hotel. In the early light of the morning, with the wind fluttering through the leaves and the birds cheerfully chirping, we begin each practice with deep belly breathing and the mysterious beautiful Om. The classes are small, with less than five people and structured very similar to the kind I am accustomed to back home. Peter, the exceptional teacher, guides us through each pose, reminding us to breathe as he makes slight adjustments, intensifying each position. He is a living practitioner, full of intention and grace. No wasted movement or words, as everything is done with mindfulness and attention. It feels great to hang in downward dog, to meditate in the corpse pose, to breathe into the pigeon, creating space in my body, opening up tight muscles. It is the perfect start for a calm and balanced day, as Sebastian and I saunter back to our tent, relaxed, nimble and full of blithe.

Another memorable part of our Anjuna stay is riding the scooter through the maze of streets throughout the small town, shaded under the canopy of overgrown trees. A bit nerve-racking at first, Sebastian soon maneuvers the bike like a pro with the necessary confidence to handle the fast speeds of locals and the trepidation of tourist drivers. We check out local beaches, different tattoo shops, and all the great restaurants and boutiques. I opt never to drive, for I am content being the passenger, loosely holding on around his waist as the wind strokes my hair, tangling it into a big mess of curls. Shades on, I feel slightly mischievous by the rushing thrill of riding. Barefoot, I stretch my legs out, wild and free, as the air tickles my toes. No matter how many times we ride, my being always floods with thankfulness, for the beauty of this place, for the freedom I feel, for the love that beats in my chest.



On Wednesdays, Anjuna holds its ever-expanding outdoor market on the beach. We take a break from our poolside lounging and explore the clutter of stalls, one after the next, squeezed together in a jumble of goods, stretching out for what appears as an eternity. Over three hours, we browse different tents of Tibetan and Kashmiri traders, old tribal women, and authentic hippies. We wander around in awe at the sheer amount and variety of cultural crafts. It is a real Goan experience, as Sebastian bargains for jeweled masks and wooden rings, for hemp-sown bags and carved chess sets. We barely spend any money but purchase an assortment of treasures to bring home. I try to maintain my composure, my sheer giddiness at the amazing deals we receive, never having to pay full price for a single item!



Sebastian and I each receive an Ayurvedic massage, which uses techniques to improve circulation, relaxation, and elimination of toxins through pressure points and reflexology. With little massage experience, I did not know what to expect but am excitedly curious to find out. The massage is not held at a luxurious spa with ample privacy and fluffy white robes. Rather, it is in a shack, made of dried coconut tree bark with a dirt floor on the outskirts of Yoga Magic’s property. The masseuse, Krishna, is an older man, with missing teeth and a heavy accent. He wears a ragged white tank top over his protruding belly and khaki pants held up high on his waist. He has a crazy gleam in his eye, as if he knows the universal truths of this life. A green checkered cooking apron is his uniform while working. After a small chat, I learn that he is a practitioner for over 40 years, assuring me that God works through him, for he is nothing more than a vehicle for healing. As I lay on the table, open to receive this gift, I feel myself transform into putty. Similar to a typical massage, though he uses aromatic oils and the occasional pressing of a particular point sending shockwaves throughout my body. I feel energy pathways open up, the blood flow more smoothly, the tension and knots melt away. Krishna moves each limb through its range of motion, stretching muscles and cracking joints. An hour seems to pass in an instant and I remain still in a puddle of mud. I feel the effects of it throughout the next day, as my body detoxes, cleansing and purifying itself, leaving me feeling rejuvenated and a huge believer in Ayurvedic healing.

Although our short stay passes quickly, Sebastian and I are both ready to continue on with our adventure. We feel satisfied to spend time at a Yoga retreat but the lack of air conditioning and other modern amenities, in particular a toilet, begin to annoy rather than excite us. The novelty ends after the four sleepless nights of mosquito attacks and profuse sweating. We are ready to relax, to take it down a notch and unwind. We head to my most favorite place in the world…the beach!

Dancing with the Divine

God has yet again intervened on my behalf, astounding me with the brilliance of my own life. I do not believe in randomness or coincidence, for I know this is part of a divine plan. Unbeknownst to Sebastian and I that when we booked this hotel we would be staying during a visit from a famous Indian guru. Shree Vishwatmak Janglidas Maharaj, commonly referred to as Babaji, is a living yogi saint, visiting Yoga Magic for a morning of silent meditation and satsang. He runs an ashram in Maharashtra and gives care to poverty stricken people and orphaned children. I have never heard of this man before but I am curious to participate in such a rare opportunity. We are instructed to dress in all white and bring open hearts and minds.

The morning begins by yoga practice by the poolside in preparation for the spiritual journey. Communal breakfast is served with an assortment of fruits, buffalo milk yogurt, and fresh coffee. Visitors arrive at the hotel, appearing pure and devout in loose colorless garments. We assemble in the yoga hut, each person setting up a small plot of earth with blankets, pillows and other props. We sit silently, in earnest anticipation for the adored guru. Although Babji has millions of Indian devotees, he has only a small number of Western followers, many of which are attending this service. While Hindu devotional music fills the room, Babaji enters, an exceedingly petite man, with long scraggly hair and wide innocent eyes, draped in a white cotton cloth. His body looks like that of an emaciated adolescent but has eyes of a wise old man. No one is certain of his age but it is rumored that he is over one hundred. Immediately upon entry, the energy of the room uplifts, pulsates at a higher frequency. He does not speak, only sits in lotus position, eyes closed. For almost an hour, the group mediates in stillness. I am reminded of the craziness of the mind, with its distractions and thoughts, never wanting to give up control. Babaji’s approach is to not try and still the mind or passively watch thoughts float by, but to actively contemplate the Atman, the Soul or higher consciousness, with love, kindness and respect. He believes that this Atman is the sole existence in the universe, residing in all people regardless of religion, and can never be destroyed, for its very essence is immortality.

The meditation ceases when the music begins playing again and Babaji exits the yoga studio and slowly, carefully walks into the thatched hut located next to the swimming pool. Small intimate groups take turns sitting in his presence, receiving a glossed card of his philosophy and a ladu, a sweet North Indian delicacy. During my turn, something remarkable occurs in my body. I am suddenly swaying in circles gravitating to my left side. This is completely involuntary; I have no control. I am cognizant that it is happening inside of me, fearful of what it is, fearful that it might end. I have never moved in such a manner before but soon realize that it is God’s presence, divine energy stirring in my bones, blood and heart. Completely connected, I do not resist, rather observe and allow my body to be taken over. I am touched by grace.

Walking out, I am in a trance like state. I avoid the crowd of people and find a plot of grass. I begin walking in circles, aimless and formless, out of my body. I am searching for something. I am losing my mind. I have no thoughts, just circling and circling. I feel crazy. Sweat is pouring down my back, down my legs. God is radiating through me. Parched grass is chafing my feet. Squinted eyes focused on the ground, then the sky. I am lost and found in the same moment. Suddenly, something grabs my awareness. A pinkish red object laying on the grass. Instinctively I reach for it, turn it over. It is a heart, outlined in red with two smaller hearts embedded within, a small dot at the core. It is a sign, an omen from God. This I am sure. The treasure grounds me, excites me, and pushes me deeper into faith.

I return to the group so deeply touched that it is hard for me to speak. I sit alone during the gathering of musicians who play beautiful music for Babji. There was a hanging drum, a guitar, a bark flute and an instrument resembling a combination of a sitar and violin, as well as an array of tuning bowls forming a deep barreling Om sound. Whereas everyone is still and silent, I find myself swaying again, this time voluntary. I am dancing with God. I allow the music into my being, feeling the divine presence combine with my own soul until we create the most intense movement I have ever felt. For the entire hour I do not open my eyes, afraid that I may lose the connection, lose the spirit within and come back to this earth. Mine certainly is a dancing path and this is my very first dance with God.

The spiritual gathering ends with a collective lunch prepared by the incredible staff at Yoga Magic. We gather on the floors around the dining area, buzzing bodies talking excitedly about Babaji’s visit. We are served curried lentils, yellow rice, green beans and cabbage on paper plates made of banana leaves. It is deliciously nutritious, fitting with the nature of the day. I am physically, emotionally, spiritually fulfilled.

For several hours, quiet and introspective, I digest the events of today. Although I respect Babaji, I do not feel any real connection to him as a man, but rather to his energy. I am flowing with gratitude for such a profound experience, a necessary progression in my soul’s evolution. Before arriving to Goa, I sensed that somehow I would lose my mind here. Foolishly, I thought it would happen at some psychedelic rave party on a beach, not on some dreadfully hot morning in the presence of a frail guru, walking chaotically in circles. It is no matter though, for now I feel the most in tune, aware and committed to God and my life path than ever before.

Yoga MAGIC

I have landed in paradise. I pinch myself because this trip continues to amaze me. Everyday unfolds seamlessly, perfect moment after perfect moment. We arrive in Goa, Indian’s smallest state on the western coast bordering the Arabian Sea. Only an hour from Bangalore and I feel as though I am in another world, from the fertile hills of the Ghats to the palm fringed tropical sands. The Portuguese colonized Goa for almost 500 years until it became a part of India in 1961. As we ride in the cab to our hotel, down a labyrinth of narrow curved roads, it is evident how the Mediterranean influence intertwines with a beach community of small huts, shops and barefoot locals. Everyone is relaxed and sun kissed. I immediately notice the large majority of Caucasian inhabitants, a result of hippies discovering Goa years ago. Many a person is dressed as if it is Woodstock, in loose flowing clothes with dreadlocks and tattoos. I am curious to explore this strangely interesting place….

After meandering through unnamed roads fringed with banana and coconut trees, we reach our hotel, Yoga Magic, an oasis of peace surrounded by a water creek and paddy fields of diverse birdlife. Walking up the cool stone steps, we enter into the small but charming lobby of dark carved wood and smelling of incense. Juliette, one of the owners, gives a tour of this majestic lodge. It is a tiny place, with several tents and a handful of shacks and teepees, spread out around flourishing grounds and meadows. There is a canopy of roses covering the pathways. A swirling-shaped pool of crystal blue is surrounded by floating gardens, rocks with gushing waterfalls and thatched roof huts to escape the sun’s heat. Several tables, floor cushions and a bar serve as the dining area where gourmet vegetarian Indian food is served, prepared using spices, herbs and vegetables from the organic garden. The energy here is alive, pure, pulsating of natural life.



The lodges are modeled after Rajasthani hunting tents, with two adjoining rooms built from mud, stone, bamboo and coconut wood, each specified by a particular color corresponding to one of the chakras of the human body. The furniture is simple, set against colorful saris and hand printed cotton draped from the elevated roof. The bed, large and comfortable with fluffy pillows and silk cushions, is crafted from locally made iron. There is a spacious dressing room of mud cobble walls, arched windows, and a sculpted sofa bed. It is open, airy and free, with a veranda molded from baked mud and cow dung. Two reclining chairs face a sweeping field to watch the sunset or gaze at the stars. There is no door or locks, fans or air-conditioning. The eco-chic tent features solar halogen lighting throughout, so there is no need for power outlets. The roofless bathroom consists of a natural composting toilet, which uses mango woodchips and effective micro-organisms to return everything back to nature. There are clay urns filled with well water for bathing and hot solar showers a short walk away from each tent. Everything is shaped from locally sustainable materials such as clay and palm leaves, including the yoga temple, where daily classes are held. Fresh flowers float in pots next to statues of Buddha, bells gently chime in the breeze while oil lamp aromas permeate the warm air.






Although the beauty and serenity of this place astounds me, I feel nervous and uncomfortable. I am in the middle of nowhere, an open field out in Goa, living in the simplest manner I have ever experienced. I am out of my comfort zones, questioning how I am going to survive without my safety nets. Until now, the transition has been smooth and to a degree, painless. But everything has changed; I am being forced to let go. For the next five days, I must surrender. I craved nature. I wanted the simple life. As usual, life responds to my desire and gives me exactly what I seek.

Buyin', Boozin' and Bumpin' to the beat of Bangalore...

The next leg of our journey is underway. After spending a week in the richly radiant state of Kerala, we head to Bengaluru, commonly referred to as Bangalore, the progressively modern IT capital in India. A quick flight lands us in a newly constructed airport of impeccable cleanliness, with contemporary architecture of brushed silver columns set against tainted teal windows. I am suddenly bombarded with the freshness and wealth of the city. This is not the India I have been exposed to thus far; rather, it is a metropolis of construction cranes and paved roads. An hour drive to the hotel allows me to observe living conditions. The slum dwellings and broken shacks are replaced by gray, rigid, stout buildings known as campuses, where the offices of huge IT giants outsource much of their work. Harsh and overpowering, I shrink in their presence. Bangalore also has a slew of lavish hotels, large and luxurious, painted white with gardens of flowering colors. I recognize chains of retailers and fast food joints, ranging from Addidas to Pizza Hut. Hoards of men dressed in finely pressed starched shirts and stripped ties overflow the streets and restaurants. However, the most prevalent, blaringly obvious aspect of this strange place is the traffic. Not the changing lanes into oncoming traffic like I experienced in Kerala. This kind of traffic I know all to well from spending a decade living in the Big Apple. Modern city traffic with the accompanying smog, horns and grumpiness. Accidents and scuffles are common occurrences. People have less patience and seem angrier. It feels crowded in a suffocating manner, with too many people and cars, an army of rickshaws filling in any tiny space, surrounded by buildings and billboards and stores. I am reminded of the madness of urban dwelling.

Bangalore is known as a shopping extravaganza, resulting from the disposal income of the young IT community. After Sebastian and I check into our centrally located and very cheap hotel ($40 a night!), we head out to Commercial Street. This entire section of town is lined with tiny stores, little alcoves filled with multitudes of items embedded among larger, better known shops. Everything from shoes to jewelry, fabrics to spiritual statues are bought and sold. I am overwhelmed by the variety, the chaotic energy, the pressuring of salespersons to make a purchase. We peruse through several bangles stores until I find Yassi, a pro at creating the most beautiful sets of bracelets I have seen since I arrived over two weeks ago. We spend well over an hour in his shop, as I meticulously select special colors and sizes, with beads and jewels and glitter, for all my favorite girls back home. In awe, I watch Yassi move with fierce quickness, artistic grace and compelling confidence as he creates set after set, one prettier than the next. Poor Sebastian sits patiently in the corner, quietly observing and smirking, for his knows I am thoroughly enjoying this moment.

We continue walking, weaving in and out of different shops that grab our attention. We master the art of haggling, bargaining for golden trinkets and embroided fabrics. It proves to be a thrilling rush of a game, insulting the seller with a ridiculously low offer and walking away when he adamantly refuses. Without fail, every single time, we are chased and begged to return, agreeing to our suggested price. I purchase an immense amount of decorations for my home and gifts for friends and family for what I consider to be pennies! Compared to New York prices, it is a steal! I learn that the best case scenario is to earn in dollars and spend in rupees.

Both days, although exhausted from shopping in the unyielding heat, we decide to experience the nightlife, another known aspect of Bangalore. It is the first opportunity I have all trip to get dressed up, to exercise my city girl style. Women do not wears stilettos here so I reluctantly wear flats, a major fashion no-no back home. We meet up with Carthik, a friend Sebastian made and has kept in contact with since the last time he visited two years ago, a mid-20’s native with boyish charm and an innocent smile. He and his girlfriend Tanushree, also a native and working professional, know the most happening places to party. On Friday, they suggest a local club, Hint, where most of the young work force frequent after a long week. The club is extremely dark with loud, thumping music. We pay ten dollars at the door for unlimited food and drink. Stunned, we begin to take full advantage of this absurd deal. Hint also has an outdoor balcony section overlooking the small city. Although not very many buildings, it still offers the appeal of a lit up skyline. Not fans of club music, we suck it up and join the dancing crowd. I feel like I am sixteen again, dancing free and open, careless as Sebastian twirls me around the dance floor. We are giggling and smiling, savoring the boundless freedom.

On Saturday, we attend a more upscale spot called Athena at the Leela Palace, an extraordinarily magnificent hotel oozing affluence. It is a sexy lounge, as though it came straight out of Manhattan, complete with dim lighting set against a futuristic spaceship décor. Drinks are expensive, the music is pumping, the crowd is intoxicated and letting loose. Again, we tear up the floor, dancing wildly feeling like young teenagers in love. For the few minutes the DJ played hip-hop, we unleash our New York gansta-roots. Having an abundant amount of experience, it is obvious these people know how to party, despite their outdated music. I realize that though the location may change, human beings around the world enjoy the same things, are moved by the same beats, feel the same emotions.



A bit hung-over and exhausted from back to back nights of partying, we head to Goa, the laid back hippie beach community. I am thankful to spend the weekend in Bangalore, enjoying the pleasures of the flesh. Although I appreciate buying, boozing and bumping to the beat, I ache to return to the quiet, simpler life away from buildings and swarms of bodies, cars and technology. I grasp how city living is not conducive for spiritual growth with its countless distractions and superficial pleasures. I want nature, God, the slower pace. I am ready to go the other extreme.

The Great Indian Railway

Riding the Indian Railways is a must for anyone visiting this great country. The subcontinent’s railway system, part of the British Empire’s legacy, is the largest kind in the world and one of the busiest. It transports MILLIONS of passengers and tons of freight daily, traversing the length and breadth of the country, as it covers 40,000 miles.

The excitement begins at the ticket counter when given the option of what kind of car we want to ride. Maybe a sleeper car? Or should we choose air conditioning? How about the second class car? So many choices for such an exciting experience. We decide to purchase seats in second class for the access to windows and fresh air. It is early during rush hour and I am reminded of New York during the heat of summer, crowded and pushy. Moving bodies of sweat everywhere. The smell of urine is awful. Everyone has somewhere to go, half sleepwalking while boarding the train. We find our seats and I plop myself right next to the window. Big and open, it allows me to take in the rural landscape of my beloved India. I am anxious and excited to see more of the countryside. As the train whistles and starts chugging forward, as the scene around me morphs into vast lands of green, untouched lands, I begin to appreciate the significance of this experience.

We pass farms with cows sporadically grazing in the morning sun. I witness shacks the size of closets, with no running water or electricity. I observe poor communities with nothing more than a few pieces of wood and some dried banana leaves for shelter. I wonder how people live under such conditions and feel blessed for my life’s abundance. I see countless outhouses, clotheslines, coconut trees, and rice patty fields. Undeveloped land stretches for as far as the eye can see. During the entire trip, every few minutes, a man dressed in a stripped shirt carrying a silver tank of his shoulders bellows “Chai, Chai Chai” or “Cappi, Cappi, Cappi,” and distributes little cups of the warm beverages for a mere twenty cents. Others walk up and down the narrow aisles selling everything from favorite snacks to books and lottery tickets.

The ultimate experience, however, is going to the bathroom on the moving train. I know it is not an easy task, but I am not prepared for this. I walk into the tiny space and there in the floor is the infamous hole. Except I see straight down to the tracks. This explains why the stations smell so bad! Whatever falls down the hole is splattered smack across the tracks. I will avoid too much detail but it is not easy squatting over a hole, holding up your clothes on a fast moving train and trying to aim appropriately. And let’s not forget there is no toilet paper! I definitely need some more practice. I'm not very good at it.

Upon arriving at our destination, I feel like I undertook some grand adventure. There is something thrilling about riding the rails, nostalgic reminders of a time gone by. I appreciate it as a unifying force, not only physically linking distant regions but it also connecting a myriad of people. Different castes, languages, and religions all dynamically moving, coalescing together. Its history is rich and its growth reflects the greatness of the country. Varied are the faces and countless are the stories on THE GREAT INDIAN RAILWAY.