Hot Springs Hotel, Tattapani, Himachal Pradesh, India

Middle-Of-Nowhere

Or, if you are a local Buddhist, Everywhere

We had gotten drenched in Shimla, and weren’t able to find a hotel at a decent price, so we decided to continue on our way towards Manali, or Dharamsala, or wherever we were headed. Super navigator Fred had seen a map with a ‘fun looking road’ that sort of went in the direction we wanted to go. We left Shimla and made it to the Hot Springs Hotel.

Good rates, pretty clean, nice little town, and a hot spring swimming pool next to the lobby. Not fancy, but it was kind of perfect for the occasion. We escaped the rains in Shimla and rode through more twisty mountain roads and arrived at the Hot Springs in the afternoon. We liked it. We were riding a kick start single cylinder motorcycle that went putt putt putt up and down the hills at a nice and steady pace. It seemed like the way people might have traveled 60 years ago, and a halfway stop at a small town centered around some hot springs seemed pretty legitimate.

The next day looked like it would be an amazing ride, I took a screenshot of the Google Maps for the road we would ride to Manali because it was so twisty. It was more loopy and convoluted than anything I’d ever seen on a map.

Turns out it was also the most terrifying road I have ever been on. Picture a one lane road with bottomless cliffs on the left side, steep rock walls on the right side, and no guardrails. Buses were frequent and the Indians drive British style, on the left. So I needed to pass the buses on the outside, with 2-3 feet of dirt shoulder before the edge of a bottomless drop.  There were a few times when the road was just too narrow and I dove the bike into the wall on the right, forcing the bus to get past me on the outside. Dick move, sure, but I’d do it again. I was terrified, I can only imagine what was going through Laura’s head. She says her eyes were closed most of the time.

It was about 200 Kilometers from Tattapani to Manali and it took 7 hours. But we did find a good Chana Masala Wallah halfway along the route.

Manali. It’s a small and manageable combination of a shopping mall and a base camp with plenty of nightclubs. It’s at the base of the Rohtang pass, and it’s at 6700 feet altitude, so it’s a popular getaway from Delhi and Mumbai.

We followed the Beas river up from the town of Mandy and arrived in Manali later in the afternoon. I had done a little research on the hotels available, but the one that seemed best neglected to mention that it was 5 miles away from town. We drove through Manali for about 20 minutes eyeballing the various options. We even stopped at the Manali Tourist Information Center hoping to find someone with some recommendations, but it was just a knick knack store selling all kinds of Manali Officialism.

We wound up at the Picadilly, a decent sized hotel along the main road through town, which looked to have been built sometime in the 70s. Apparently someone decided that it was time for a renovation, which seems hasty by Northern Indian standards, but we were treated to the sounds of construction and the globally familiar layer of dust that is present anytime someone is hanging sheetrock. It’s a good thing that we were completely exhausted by our ride earlier in the day because we were able to sleep through most of the sounds from the nightclub that the hotel hosted in its pool area, just outside our window.

You’d think that these were small inconveniences for the price of about $40 per night, but when considered on a relative scale this is about four times more than the local guesthouses asked. I’m sure they would have had different, but equally awkward, problems and issues, but at $10 a night I can be accommodating.

The next morning, sitting in the lobby so we could connect to the internet and get to know the construction workers while drinking truly terrible coffee, we decided to switch to Chai tea. And discuss our future.

We were pretty beat up, but Manali kind of sucked.

Manali was a busy little town, with a lot of shops and restaurants, but it didn’t really have any special character to it. And we were on a motorcycle with backpacks, so we couldn’t really buy anything anyway.

We wanted to go to Dharamsala, but the Enfield was leaking so much oil that it was staining our boots, pants, and bags. So we took the Enfield to a local Bullet Wallah, Anu Auto Works, and had him check out the leaks. He said no problem, he could fix it. He needed to repair the threads for a bolt that provided oil to the valves and it would be done in the afternoon. He drilled and tapped the threads, replaced a bolt on a muffler hanger, and adjusted the footpegs for about $10. The Enfield was proclaimed sound by the local Bullet Wallah, so we had the green light to go.

We decided to stay another night in Manali and then go to Dharamsala the back way, so I did some more internet research and found a place with fantastic Tripadvisor reviews.

The Johnson hotel in Manali was where we spent the second night. It was a beautifully built rustic log cabin feeling place with great gardens and nice big rooms. I figured what the hell, let’s go big, so we splurged and booked it at $50 a night.

It reminded me of the phrase ‘the lunatics have taken over the asylum’. It was almost as if someone spent a ton of money building a beautiful hotel and then handed it to a cousin with no hotel experience. There were the obvious things like the internet not working, and the 45 minute wait to check out because their credit card merchant account had been cancelled, and the awkward nightclub party that found us the second night in Manali, just outside our window…. But it was the little things that I found unsettling. The desk clerk that would lean waaay over the desk and say “Welcome, how aaaare you?” And stay staring and leaning until you responded. With details. The other guy who just stared, perhaps he thought I looked suspicious. Anyway, you get the picture. Nice place. Awkward stay, $50 a night.

Luckily we were in town in time to see the Durga festival, a week long ceremony celebrating Durga, the female deity created by Brahma, Shiva, and Vishnu to defeat the evil Mahishasura, who could not be defeated by a man, only by a woman. We first noticed the festival when Laura poked her head out the door of the café to see what the hubbub was. The leaders of the parade grabbed her and put her in the front of the column on the march to the Temple while the rest of the crowd were banging drums and singing and hollering. I was a little concerned that they might offer her up for sacrifice, but she was having such a great time singing and dancing at the front of the parade, I didn’t want to spoil it for her.

I wasn’t able to understand the significance of the festival through the parades, and dance, and awesome pot-on-head balancing, so I checked with Wikipedia.

The next morning, our 8 AM departure delayed to 9 AM thanks to the credit card machine, we had the bike packed and we hit the road to Dharamsala, the back way.

If you ever look at a map you will see that there is a basic loop of roads that show Manali at about 4 PM and Dharamsala at about 8 PM. If it were a clock. But it’s not, it’s just pictures that mean to represent roads and towns and maybe some other stuff as well.

The Clockwise journey was well documented and it should have taken us about 8 hours to ride. The Counter-clockwise journey was less so, and we weren’t really sure. We would need to cross the Rohtang Pass, drive through Keylong and hopefully spend the night in Udaipur, then continue on and take a left somewhere, which would get us to Dalhousie, another Hill Station, and then finally, Dharamsala.

The Rohtang Pass is amazing, great new roads switch-backing up to 13,000 feet, wide enough that I wasn’t terrified, and steep enough that we had many paragliders zipping overhead as they coasted down the mountainside. The top of the pass looked a little like the surface of the moon, so far above the timber line there were no trees, lots of rocks, and about 2000 donkeys, all saddled up for trekking. I wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but there were an equal number of Land Cruisers and trucks that hauled people up here to jump on a donkey and go riding off on a trail. It was interesting but it didn’t look like a ton of fun, so we kept on riding.

And all those good things I said about riding up the pass… I take them all back. As soon as we got to the backside of the pass, the road completely degraded to a tore up, post-apocalyptic mining track that had more potholes than pavement and more mud than dirt. Luckily I didn’t really need to worry about sharing the road with trucks and buses because so few of them were stupid enough to actually try and drive down it.  Apparently all fiscal responsibility stopped at the top of the pass and anyone unfortunate enough to journey into the Lahaul Valley could just suck it.

The word Rohtang translates into ‘Pile of corpses’ because of the habit the pass has of freezing over and killing everyone trying to cross it, in fact the entire Lahaul Valley is accessible only by helicopter from late-October to mid-May because of things like 40 feet of snow. The locals refer to it as an open jail and mention that fruits and vegetables are all completely gone by February, and canned food is a currency.

We had made the top of the pass by about 1 PM, and bounced down to the town of Keylong around 2-ish. Keylong is another Hill Station, built along a river valley, pretty stark and austere, but it’s an old town with an important monastery and it’s a hub for many of the teeny remote villages further up in the mountains. It seemed ok, but we still had a lot of daylight left, so we struck on towards Udaipur.

The Lahaul Valley must have decided that anyone who reached the base of the pass and got through Keylong was dedicated enough and deserved some actual asphalt, but only for about 30 Kilometers, and punctuated approximately every 5 minutes with a stretch of bare dirt road that required slowing to the pace of a fast walk if you wanted to keep your kidneys intact while you snuck up on the next stretch of pavement.

And then, just to remind you who’s boss, they left the last 20 kilometers of road to Udaipur to the original bare rock and dirt that prevented civilization from approaching this valley for thousands of years.

Udaipur was great. We were only there for one night, but it is one of my favorite places in India. We rode down the one street in town, from the beginning to the end, about a kilometer, then turned around and stopped somewhere in the middle.

It was still daylight, but barely, we had only seen one place that looked like it might be a hotel or guesthouse. Most of the shops looked like places a gold miner would buy supplies; most of the houses had cows living in the ground floor rooms. One of the locals walked up and began practicing his English skill with us, he introduced us to the owners of a guesthouse that had no sign, but was run by a Muslim couple from the restaurant across the street. It was 500 Rupees to share a room on the 3rd floor, and there was no safe place to park the Enfield, but the owner was willing to lets us put it in his house nearby.

We decided to walk down the road to check out the other possible place we saw on the way in. It was 400 Rupees, with our own room on the 3rd floor and we could park the motorcycle on the patio near the front door. Sold. Our room had windows with an amazing view of Himalayan peaks, and we shared a bathroom with a couple of invisible people, and only had running water for a couple of hours a day. But hey, what do you expect for 6 bucks?

The man that greeted us was named Maroj and was buddies with these people too. He worked in Forestry, which means he is a type of Ranger. He and his buddy Vikram told us about the open jail, the lack of veggies, and poachers that would sneak into the valley to hunt Ibex. We had tea with them, and as their guests we weren’t allowed to pay for it. Maroj also introduced me to the lady that sold Mobile SIM cards, but we were there on a Sunday and apparently cell phones and don’t work on weekends around there.  I’m not sure I understand the logic, but it’s kind of cool regardless.

While Laura was up in the room I snuck out and waited on the street for one of the local 4X4 trucks that haul the locals around from town to town. I found one and asked him if it was possible to continue on and make it to Dalhousie/Dharamsala on a motorcycle.

After confirming that the motorcycle was a Bullet he assured me that it could be done, but only on a Bullet, because the road got even worse. It had been paved about 20 years before and then, in 1998, a group of terrorists shot down 35 Hindu road workers, so the road hasn’t seen any repair since.

It would be a full day’s ride to a town called Killar where we would spend the night and then take the left turn to cross over the Saach Pass, with a height of 14,500 feet. The pass closes for the year in mid-October, and as we were there in the first week of October, we would probably need to hustle if we wanted to make it over.

From Killar it would be another full day ride to a town called Chamba, and then we would make Dharamsala the next day.

I tried to explain to Laura that 3 days of being thrashed by the third world’s worst road, so we could cross a remote pass with a limited chance of being caught in a blizzard, totally unprepared, on a motorcycle, was waaay cooler than 2 days backtracking through towns that we weren’t terribly impressed with in the first place.

She tried to explain to me that she would rather risk getting gang raped on a 40 year old bus while it crept up and over the Rohtang pass in first gear, and that there was nothing I could say that would convince her to get back on that goddamn motorcycle unless it was pointed back the way we came.

She won, but I made sure she thought it was my idea to go back anyway. I’m still not convinced that she fell for it, but at least she pretends.

The previous update described Delhi and Karol Bagh, finding motorcycles and preparing for a journey, and learning the word Wallah. Now we are ready. Well, as ready as we could possibly be, having spent only one day preparing. Kinda ready.

8 AM. Laura and I stroll out of the Le Meridien hotel carrying helmets and small backpacks, ready for our Great India Adventure. The 500 CC, single cylinder, kick start only, Royal Enfield Bullet is waiting for us, fully fueled and ready go to.

Mr Soni’s ‘boys’ are kind enough to escort us to the edge of the city and get us onto highway 1, which points North towards Kashmir, Tibet and China, all of which we have in mind for future adventures, none of which we have planned for our current outing. We’re keeping it simple. Vague, but simple.

I had been warned about the old rental scam where the rentee asks where you’re going, you tell them, they send someone to steal the vehicle, and then charge you for replacement, so I totally lied to Mr Soni and told him we were going to ride to Dehradun and the putter our way up to Manali, when really we intended to go West into Rajasthan, to see ancient hilltop forts, and ride camels, and ride through the Indian deserts. But my lie got me thinking…. It was really hot in Delhi, and the Himalaya mountains were pretty close, and Dharamsala was up there. And the Dalai Lama lived there, he’s a pretty cool dude. There’s gotta be some interesting things to do and see… So we actually wound up living the lie. Well, sorta. We didn’t see Dehradun, but we did make it to Manali and Dharamsala.

Our first day on the road started with an hour of brutal Delhi traffic, just to get to the edge of town where highway 1 began. Our escort, the two guys who brought the bike to the hotel, figured out that I wasn’t a terrible rider, I was able to squeeze a big bike, with side racks, into marginally bigger spaces between Auto Rickshaws, and I was reckless enough to keep riding after about ten minutes of trial by fire. So they gave us a thrilling high adrenaline ride, which they probably refer to as ‘morning commute’.

I was constantly reminding myself that millions of people do this every day all over this country, and that if it was as dangerous as it seemed that there wouldn’t be millions of people still doing it. Right? I mean if driving in India was as dangerous as we like to believe it is then they probably wouldn’t be the second most populous nation on Earth, right behind China. It would be like gas powered population control.

All I’m saying is that if this many people could handle it for the entire lives then I could probably manage for a couple of weeks. Statistically it was way safer than Running with the Bulls, which I promise not to do again.

So we make it to the edge of town, the escort is perfectly happy to be rid of us, and the open road is laid out before us. But it turns out that the open road is only open road for about 10 kilometers before road construction begins routing us along the dirt frontage road. Then back to the open road for another 10 kilometers, then road construction. Open road. Construction. Open road. Construction. Repeat for 250 kilometers.

By 1 pm we had made it to Chandigarh, which was our first experience with one of the most wonderful things India has to offer.

McDonalds.

I’m totally serious. After five hours of riding through Delhi traffic and India’s version of an interstate we were ready for a McLatte and food that might not give us blow outs for a week. While the McLatte wasn’t available, the vegetarian menu at an Indian McDonalds is amazing. From veggie burgers to paneer wraps. Really good stuff. Laura approved.

Fueled up on drip coffee and paneer wraps we were ready to hit the road again; our goal was the Hill Station town of Shimla. There was no special reason for Shimla, but I had read that it was a former summer location for the British administration because of its cooler temperatures and that the architecture was unusually British for a small mountain town in Northern India. And based on the fact that our realistic mileage per day was actually about 300 – 400 kilometers because of our top speed of 50 MPH and the random detours, poor roads, lack of signage, and generally twisty nature of the roads… well Shimla was about as far as I thought we would make it on day one.

From Chandigarh to Shimla the roads were amazing, tight and twisty two lane roads going up and down mountains and valleys with jungles and rivers and cows and monkeys and buses and trucks and other motorcycles, all trying to pass the buses and trucks, which were being passed by other buses and trucks at the same time. It was very beautiful and thrilling and spectacular and terrifying. And there were monkeys every 10 – 15 minutes, hanging out by the side of the road and waiting for something interesting to happen.

As we neared Shimla the whole ‘microclimate’ thing began to happen. Apparently the last monsoon of the season had been trapped by the mountains around Shimla and it was raining torrentially in town. Luckily we saw the rain as we entered the far side of the mountain valley, and saw the amazing towns built up the side of incredible steep hills, being drenched in water. So we stopped and put on the windbreaker I had been dragging all over the world and the $3 rain poncho that we bought in Manaus for the Amazon.

I guess if a wind breaker were any good at shedding water they would call it something else, like maybe ‘rain coat’. Mine, however, was really and truly a windbreaker. So Laura, with the windbreaker, looked like a wet kitten in a helmet. And the poncho… well the snaps tore out and it fell apart as soon as I put it on, now I understand why it only cost $3.

Due to the extremely ‘hilly’ nature of a Northern Indian Hilltop Station there were several tunnels, we chose the largest and busiest tunnel to hide in until the rain let up. It turns out this tunnel was somehow part of their local bus station, so we were able to buy hot chai and stare in amazement at the walls of water pouring down outside, and the foot or so of suspended water that floated above the pavement because of the sheer impact of the volumes of water pouring out of the sky and slamming into the asphalt.

While this was happening I was searching the internet, on my phone, for hotels. Airbnb.com, Hipmunk, Hotels.com, Tripadvisor.com… it seems that this Shimla place considered itself pretty fancy and most hotels were over $100 a night.

We found a hotel for $80, which had covered parking for the bike and was located at the beginning of the Mall Road, but without much else to recommend it.

By the time we were settled into the room and out of our wet clothes Laura was ready to sleep for a week and I was hungry. And I wanted boots. My soaking sneakers were not going to cut it. So I  grabbed the windbreaker and my flip flops and headed out to the Mall Road. It was kind of interesting. It was a Mall, and a walking Road. Sort of like you’d expect. My first purchase was an umbrella, because it was still raining a little. Then I found a shoe store that was still open, they had boots. Pretty cheap, but I didn’t love them, so I went back to hunt for dinner, and returned to the hotel room with 2 vegetarian Dominos pizzas. I only wanted one, but they were having a 2-fer special. What could I do? Anyway, I was pretty much a hero when I rolled back into the hotel room with those pizzas. Laura approved.

The next morning the weather had cleared and we got a glimpse of Shimla from the hotel. Amazing. Tall and steep mountains with towns built up the sides of them. Rambling stick figure houses, twisty snake-like streets, walkways and stairs, they even have ‘lifts’, which are basically multi stage elevators for those with ten extra rupees burning a hole in their pockets. We took one up just for the thrill. Not as cool as the escalators in Hong Kong, but effective if you want to get to Uptown from Downtown without becoming a panting sweaty mess.

We also discovered the Lower Market, which is basically the real shopping area. The Mall Road is for tourists and suckers, the real deals happen about 100 feet down on nameless twisting alleys with small booths and shops all specializing in one thing or another. We were able to find chain and padlocks to lock the toolbox to the bike more effectively than the bungee cords we had been using. I found a pair of light weight pants to give my one pair of jeans a break, and learned that my size, 38, is the biggest that any shop carries in Northern India. Yes, 38. Now I’m trying the whole portion control thing, I’ll let you know how that works someday. We also found a matching pair of black steel toe lace up boots with Vibram soles, for about $25 each. Perfect for riding the Bullet. I brought mine back to Mexico. Laura didn’t seem to bond with hers the way I did, and they are still in India somewhere…

We also discovered Chana Masala. Picture a wok the size of a garbage can lid, with a horseshoe shaped mountain of garbanzo beans and a lagoon of sauce and spices in the middle. The garbanzo beans, or chick peas are called Chana, and they are refilled along the outer edge as the inner edge is drawn into the Masala, or ‘mix’ of Indian curries and spices. Served in a bowl with Naan bread. Amazing. Ridiculously good. 20 rupees at a stand on the side of the Lower Market.

This was also where I got my first dose of Karmic Reality. There was a beggar woman with an infant child, who probably was a loaner, because the women couldn’t have been older than 13 or 14 and the child looked about 6 or 7, and they were both filthy, black with dust and grime from the streets. Laura and I were both sympathetic and wanted to give her something but I was worried that word would get out amongst her pals that white people were at the Chana Masala stand giving money away and we would get swamped. Then the Chana Masala Wallah filled a plastic sandwich bag with Chana Masala and bread and handed it to her so she and the child would have something to eat. When we paid our bill I gave him 20 extra rupees, kind of like a tip, and made the mistake for saying thanks for giving food to the beggar.

He got mad, shoved the money back at me and told me to give it to her myself. That the food was his to give, not mine.

Wow. I was stealing his Karma. I was trying to take credit for his good works. If he accepted the 20 rupees it would negate the positive Karma from his giving the food. That was a heavy lesson. I gave the 20 rupees to the beggar, did not get swamped with other beggars, and had a lot to think about for the next few days.

We found Dominos pizza, and good riding boots. British colonial buildings and monkeys. Chana masala and chai tea.

One thing we couldn’t find in Shimla, though, was a reasonable hotel.

We did like Shimla, and wanted to spend more time exploring it, but the hotel thing was kind of distressing. $80 a night would be a good deal in most US cities, but in Northern India? OK, maybe if it was really swank, but… beat up old furniture, no internet, suspicious stains on the rugs… and why is there a bucket in the shower?

We chose to move on, there was a place called the Hot Springs Hotel on the way to Manali, about 50 Kilometers along a small back road. Seemed interesting, and the road looked like an adventure of its own from the map view. This was our next destination.

Oh India…

In my last update I intended to get into the whole India thing, but I barely made it past Sri Lanka before I became overwhelmed….

I took a couple of weeks and used the ‘survival of the fittest’ method of memory organization. Hopefully I have forgotten most of the irrelevant or uninteresting details about India, so I can focus on the most important.

Day 1- Delhi

Remember the issues I had with Morocco? The aggressiveness of the Touts, and pretty much everyone else, the arm grabbing and “stepping in front of me” sales tactics… I was pretty sure I was in for a month of that. I thought India would be poor and desperate, and generally less than sensitive.

So Laura and I decided to start with a bit of the fancy, and we booked a room at Le Meridien hotel. Not just because we are kinda fancy ourselves, but also because we were pretty sure they would let us stash our rolley bags with them so we could strip down to the basics, and travel India like penitents.

OK, so we are at Le Meridien. We’ve arrived late in the night and have just finished demolishing their breakfast buffet.

We intend to walk the two kilometers to the Rajiv Chowk circle thing, then catch a metro train to the Karol Bagh neighborhood and find a couple of characters that I had read about on the internet to discuss purchasing a motorcycle.

Not just any motorcycle, but a Royal Enfield Bullet.

This is important because Royal Enfield motorcycles were British built for use in WW1 and WW2, and then, when the whole World War thing seemed to be slowing down , Royal Enfield sold all the tools and branding to India, for manufacturing down South in Chennai (formerly known as Madras).

From 1949 to 2009 there has been almost no mechanical development to the Royal Enfield line.

There are millions of these bikes all over India, with parts and mechanics everywhere. The design worked so well that they just left it alone for 60 years. Now it seems that the infrastructure has modernized to the point that there are stretches of highway where an adventurous rider could top 60 MPH, so in 2009 Royal Enfield made a new power plant, which would increase both top speed for the bikes and job security amongst Bullet Wallahs.

A Wallah is a ‘Specialist’. For pretty much anything. In this case a Bullet Wallah is a Royal Enfield mechanics, And because nearly all of the Enfields are the Bullet model, and it just sounds way cooler to say Bullet Wallah.

Try it.

But it’s really hot. Remember, we are leaving Le Meridien to walk to Rajiv Chowk? And it’s hot hot. Like you would imagine summer in India hot. Whooo. And there, in front of the hotel, like a stalker, but conveniently placed, is a Tuk Tuk. But they aren’t called Tuk Tuks here, they are known as Auto Rickshaws.

Anyway, this guy is camped in front of Le Meridien, in the area near the embassies, with no foot traffic. Just waiting. In the heat.

I know he’s gonna gouge us. He’s gonna clean us out, I’m sure of it. We will be paying London prices to eat dust, bugs and exhaust while riding around one of the most hectic cities on the planet in a Vespa powered tricycle.

So I have Laura start negotiations.

The initial price, from Le Meridien to Rajiv Chowk began at 20 rupees. And then I jumped in to start haggling…. Wait! 20 Rupees???

That’s about 25 cents.

To be honest I was shocked. I wanted to haggle upwards because it just seemed way too low. Especially in this heat.

Instead we settled on his price. 20 Rupees.

While on the way to Rajiv Chowk, to catch a Metro train, to a strange neighborhood, to find a couple of mythical motorcycle people, we discussed our plans with our new best friend, Ravi the Auto Rickshaw driver, and he suggested that he could be convinced to assist us in this strange quest for about 800 Rupees.

That’s $12 folks.

Driving in Delhi

You know when road construction on a freeway will force everyone off to detour along side streets? And how the detour signs are never totally clear, so you pretty much just follow the row of cars? Even though you see a few cars go darting off on roads that are probably short cuts?

That’s what it’s like to drive in Delhi all the time. Except with more trash. And trucks. Diesels with no mufflers. And beggars, and bicycles, and bicycle carts, and Auto Rickshaws everywhere. And that crazy Indian pop music and honking. Lots of honking. Nope, more than that. A lot a lot of honking. I’m pretty sure that honking has evolved beyond a safety warning to a song of solidarity. It seems to say I’m with you brother! No, really, I’m right here with you. Right behind you in fact. And I might try to pass you. Or not. As Shiva/Hanuman/Ganesh so wills it.

What should have been a 15 minute trip became a small adventure, mostly because Fred, boy genius, didn’t think to print a map of the location we needed and mistakenly assumed that it wouldn’t be a problem.

We had arrived in Karol Bagh and it was like a small army of motorcycle repairmen had set up camp and taken over the whole neighborhood. As far as you could see the sidewalks and streets were full of parked motorcycles, waiting for repairs, or new owners, to be torn down or possibly converted to boat anchors. All the ground floor storefronts were repair shops, and what would typically be a two lane street in any city, with all the normal small businesses had become a one lane snarl of traffic because there just wasn’t enough space for these thousands of sad looking motorcycles.

Ravi tried asking for directions to find Bullet Wallah Singh or Bullet Wallah Soni, but had no luck, in fact I think most of the responses were filled with compassion and sympathy for poor Ravi, who had to haul around these two lost souls who were clearly not aware of how this place worked.

The solution to all this was to find an Indian SIM card for my smartphone so I could look these guys up on the internet and get their exact addresses. Sounds easy, right?

Each street-side cell phone store told me that they didn’t have SIM cards, and referred me on to the next, which MIGHT have them.

By the time we got to the 5th we finally found a corner store/bodega that was able to sell me an Airtel SIM card, but he needed a photocopy of my passport and passport photos before he could do so. And he had an attitude, like he wasn’t too happy with selling a SIM card to someone he didn’t know. So off we went to find a place to take passport photos.

Luckily there was one about 10 minutes away, a basement photo studio with various backdrops on the walls and the stairway down covered in sample photos of cute Indian high school kids dressed up for something like prom in front of a forest looking backdrop, families with a newborn baby in front of waterfalls, married couples celebrating an anniversary with the Taj Mahal. I chose waterfalls for my backdrop.

So we went back and dealt with the dude, and got the SIM card, bought an extra 250 Rupees of mobile phone credit, and we were off. With the exact address of where we needed to go. To Mr Singh, Bullet Wallah.

15 minutes later we walk down the ramp into the well-organized basement repair shop or Mr Singh. And he’s not there. We are told to return in 30 minutes and Mr Singh will probably be back. So we track down the second person, Mr Soni. It turns out that Mr Soni had moved his shop, but some local fellows were perfectly happy to take us there, all we needed to do was follow them. Now. Right now, come on let’s go. Now Now.

It is entirely possible that they were going to take us to see Mr Soni, but visions of waking up in a bathtub of ice with my kidneys gone were in my mind, so I relied on the old Stubborn n Stupid routine and refused to budge while trying about 10 different phone numbers to reach Mr Soni. Who was there, and he sent a boy to come get us. He liked to refer to the clearly adult men working for him as his boys. I’m not sure if that’s a Mr Soni thing, or a New Delhi thing, but I decided not to do the same.

Mr Soni had about 4 different bikes to choose from, but the type I wanted, with a 5 speed transmission and the shifter on the left wouldn’t be back in until later that day. So I gave him a deposit and asked him to deliver it to Le Meridien at 8 AM the next morning.

Mr Soni gave Ravi the name of a reputable motorcycle gear store, so we went and bought 2 helmets, 2 sets of gloves and a bag that magnetically stuck to the motorcycle tank for a total of approximately $100.

We could have gotten a better price if we had chosen the lower quality helmets, but I figured what the hell, go big...

After spending a good part of the day on the hunt for motorcycles Laura mentioned the Temple of Lakshmi, and that if we went to another motorcycle related place she would probably stab me.  I somehow had a brilliant idea right around this time that we should visit the Temple of Lakshmi where Laura could have a chat with the goddess of wealth and prosperity, wife of Vishnu.

By some sort of small miracle the Temple (of Laksmhi) happened to be playing the ‘Hanuman Chalisa’, a 40 verse song extolling Hanumans virtues of badassery. Apparently Hanuman wasn’t a god, but was a monkey warrior for the gods, basically a Hindu version of Chuck Norris. There is even a humongous statue of Hanuman located in the center of a really busy intersection in Delhi, which must be some sort of strategic test; If you are crazy enough to try, and lucky enough to make it to Hanuman without being killed in the traffic, then it is obvious that you have been blessed by the gods.

And all this Hanuman info is relevant because the Hanuman Chalisa happens to be the one Hindi song that Laura has memorized. So she had a grand old time praying to Lakshmi and singing along to the Hanuman song and basically partying with the local Hindus.

Meanwhile, back on the sidewalk, Ravi and I loitered in front of the Temple like time share salesman in Cabo. Except I didn’t really have anything to sell, but I did end up buying a 100 Rupee map of Delhi for 200 Rupees. This was the moment that I realized that almost all products in India have a ‘recommended sale price’ above the bar codes.

Eventually Ravi did take us by a silk shop where he got an obvious commission for anything we might purchase, and the salesmen did a song and dance with some interesting sales tactics.

We were told that a genuine silk shawl will pull through a ring, like a wedding ring, with almost no resistance. So he showed us, and then said ‘but I lied! That was cheap Chinese fake!’. Which was supposed to be a display of his forthrightness and honesty. Because he then went on to show us the real silk shawls, which were clearly the genuine article because he said so. Although he didn't actually try to pull any of them through a ring… hmmmm.

Anyway, they were all disappointed, but very polite about it, when we told them for the 20th time that we were beginning a motorcycle trip, had no space for anything else in our luggage, interest in buying anything, or any intention whatsoever to take back a shawl for anyone, anywhere.

Finally Laura and I made it back to the uber fancy Le Meridien and prepared for our morning departure. We triaged our belongings into ‘things we need to survive’ and ‘other’. The ‘other’ things went into our suitcases, and the rest into the tank bag, Laura’s backpack, and my messenger bag, or man-purse.

I was ready to begin planning the details of our departure. The timing, the route, the objectives and the bare minimum distance we needed to cover before we would consider ourselves beat.

But Laura was already asleep.

I’m not sure how many pages or words I have just written, but this only gets us through a day and a half in Delhi. I’m going to need to send you folks updates regarding our journey on a semi random schedule. To send it all at once would be the size of a book, and it would probably be like Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Everyone has started that book, no one has finished it. Including me.

Namaste!!!!

Two months in South America. The beautiful city of Buenos Aires, southern hemisphere glaciers, colorful Valparaiso, Chile. Inflation crazed Rio and a week of punishment down the Amazon on the Liberty Star.

Two Months in Europe. Spain, France and Italy. Running with Bulls in Pamplona, surfing with Basques in Biarritz, and meeting fascists near Florence.

Nothing prepared me for India.

First the primer, Sri Lanka. It’s like a kinder, gentler India. 25 years of civil war seems to have kept the country focused on the basics. Like not being killed. Typically, a Sri Lankan only needs to worry about hungry leopards, angry elephants, rabid monkeys, viral mosquitoes and natural disasters. But in the early 80's the conflict with the Tamil people, in the North of their little island, also brought a bloody Civil War into the mix.

In 2009 the Sinhalese people, of the South, solved this problem by defeating the Tamils. But not in a nice way. Apparently it involved the death of some 27,000 Tamils. And then there was the 2004 Tsunami which wiped out another 35,000.

All I’m trying to say is that basic survival has been an issue in recent years, and their culture has stayed relatively simple as a result. Things are pretty easy going, temples, trains, stoplights and markets are all loosely interpreted and generally accepted as optional.

The capital city of Colombo is a mix of buses, taxis, scooters and bicycles all trying to turn down the same lane at the same time. There are roadside temples honoring the Gods of pretty much every religion each block. From Vengeful Shiva to Placid Buddha, to the Disco Jesus, they are covering all their bases. And this deserves some respect, because driving in Sri Lanka definitely improves your chances of meeting at least one of them in person. If you are not interested in meeting your maker anytime soon just remember this basic lesson- the bus always wins.

Colombo, the big city, isn’t any more interesting than any other city, so the best part was leaving, which we did several times. The first time was the train to Kandy. Sounds fun right? Like a Willy Wonka ride. It’s actually a narrow gauge railway built by the British in the 1870's. Sometime in the 1950's, the Sri Lankan Railways company upgraded the steam engines to diesel in order to compete with kick-start scooters as a method of travel. Unfortunately they didn’t seem to upgrade the tracks as well, so the train ride to Kandy is like traveling through steep and cavernous jungle peaks on a paint mixer.

If you forget to bring Dramamine just remember to focus your eyes on the horizon, it helps.

Once you are in Kandy things generally slow down and become much more manageable. The centerpiece of downtown is the old prison, which is called the old prison because it was built a long time ago, not because they stopped using it as a prison. I guess 'old prison' has a better ring to it than 'current prison', or 'still prison'. It’s round, kind of like a coliseum. But were getting sidetracked here.

Other features of Kandy are the 'Palace of the Tooth Relic' and the Kandy Dancers, which are conveniently located next door to each other and feature events at staggered times so you can see the Kandy Dancers perform awkwardly choreographed numbers with huge enthusiasm, and then you can go and visit with one of the Buddha’s teeth.

We actually were so overwhelmed by the Kandy Dancers that we played it safe and opted for a plate of Hoppers, rather than take a chance with the tooth of the Buddha. Hoppers are basically crepes made from rice instead of wheat, they seem limited to Sri Lanka and are so good that they nearly make the trip worth it.

And here’s a tip for when you go to see the Kandy Dancers, sit behind the guy with the iPad, because it’s a sure thing that he’s going to hold it up over his head and record/photograph the performance with the built in camera. It’s almost like having someone hold up a TV screen for you, like the Jumbotron at a ball game. But smaller. And closer. And less optional.

Mmmm... hoppers.

Our next destination was Arugam bay, for surfing, and hunting Hoppers.

The typical way to get there is to hire a cab for the 6-7 hour drive from Kandy to Arugam, and a price of approximately $100. But one of the geniuses on this adventure had so much fun on the train ride to Kandy, and thought driving in Sri Lanka was such a great idea, and wanted the 'freedom of a car' in Arugam bay, so he convinced the other that we should quickly go back to Colombo and get a rental car.

The other option was the $100 cab ride and then being held hostage by the Tuk Tuk drivers in Arugam, who sometimes ask as much as $5 to drive you 20 miles to a surf break and then wait for 2 hours while you try to hurt yourself.

Naturally we went for the rental car. 

You know 3 card monte? Where the street hustler is shuffling 3 cards around and you need to find the Queen? That’s what it’s like renting a car in Colombo. You NEVER accept the first car they offer. That’s the beater. They just want to get it off the lot to the first sucker that will go for it. Or the second. They are still testing you. That one might look ok from a distance, but up close you realize that it’s probably been involved in several fatalities and has been rebuilt with parts scavenged from military surplus. By the time you get to the third they know you are a problem customer and will become 'difficult' if you get a lemon.

Now they let you in 'the other lot', with the cars that they don’t really want driven across the island to Arugam bay. The cars that have not been caught in a flood, have no bullet holes in them, and haven’t had issues with wild elephants. But by this point you have wasted so much of their time with shuffling cars around, opening hoods, checking all four tires, making sure AC blows cold... they are committed.

We got a Honda with 4 different tires, poor body repair on every panel and an odometer that had either been rolled back or had surpassed the million mile mark. But it ran pretty well, and it had tinted windows, which might reduce the number of traffic infractions imagined by the police/military/guys-with-guns.

I typically use Google Maps to navigate. It’s been great, I no longer need to refold paper maps, ask for directions, or even think in advance. Google pretty much does all that for me. Except in Sri Lanka. Google seems to have given up on Sri Lanka and tells me 'Services not offered in this region'. So I was back to trusting in Allah and asking Laura if she thought we were going the right way.

It all worked out pretty well though, we just needed to follow the pavement at each intersection to continue on the inter-island motorway. There were times when I was convinced that we were lost on an abandoned, but paved, forestry road. But we persevered. And when we hit the ocean we took a right, and there we were, Arugam bay.

Cows, goats, elephants, dogs, monkeys and Europeans. The only thing missing was Americans. We were frequently told that we were the only Americans in town. You'd think the whole point of traveling is to avoid Americans, but it was actually a little strange. We are everywhere. And when told that we were the only Americans in town I felt a little ashamed, like walking on sacred ground, or dancing at a wake. But I don’t think that was how the locals felt at all. I think they were expecting me to do a trick, or say something inappropriate.

Unfortunately I don’t know any magic.... Luckily they are a kind and forgiving people. Especially the tuk tuk driver. The one with the red teeth and the idea that I wouldn’t haggle over a couple of dollars.

Anyway, the word has gotten out that Arugam has good waves, is still cheap and the war is over. The days of the surfers paradise are nearly at an end, prices are climbing, vacationers are appearing and you can’t really sleep on the beach when you might get run over by a fishing boat at 4 am.

For people based in Asia, Sri Lanka and Arugam are pretty great options, but for me, in North America, I'll probably choose Baja Mexico for the next surf trip.

Arugam was nice, but one of the highlights of the trip was going to the big Yala park and seeing a Leopard. In the wild. But get this... just after the rainy season there are many many water holes, referred to as “tanks” by locals. So many that the wildlife is really spread out and not conveniently located next to the snack shack in the state park. The chances of seeing leopards, and other creatures that don’t really like hanging out with people, are slim. To the point that the parks actually close for a month. The same month we were in Sri Lanka. No Leopards.  Boo.

Now we know to go in the dry season when there are only a couple of tanks and we can probably see a Leopard at sunset. And now you know too.

By the time we had figured all this out we were pretty much ready for the next move which was India. So we drove the southern part of Sri Lanka and spent a day in Hikkaduwa, another surf town, but the swell was so choppy that no one was out.

We did meet a salty old British expat, with a unique perspective on yoga and a great sense of humor. He’s the one who suggested we spend some time in Dharamsala when he heard we were heading for Rajashtan. If you ever make it to Hikkaduwa look for the guesthouse that has Yoga Classes painted on it. Say hi to Lyndon and tell him we said it was ok to use the surfboard that we stashed with him.

And now we are on to our 3rd and final departure from Colombo. Nothing much happened during this visit. We returned the car, ate some hoppers and relaxed in the Clock Inn while waiting for our 2 AM flight to Hong Kong.

Back in Hong Kong for a couple of days is nice. We explored Mong Kok, the most populous place on earth. Discovered the Cupping Room, which is pretty much the best coffee shop on Earth, and I explored the Chung King Mansion in Kowloon. Someday I’m going to return to Hong Kong to stay in the Mansion for a couple of weeks. It should result in enough adventures that I can write a book about it. That place is insane.

Oh look, I’ve written enough to dull your senses and maybe make you sleepy and I haven’t even started on India yet.

India was so overwhelming that I need to stop now. I can’t even think about it.

I’ll let you sit with Sri Lanka for a while and take this time to get right in my head with our experiences in India.

We also need to sort through a million pictures, because words alone can’t describe that place. Even Kipling tried, and eventually resorted to pictures as well.

Kipling. Rudyard. Jungle Book, Mowgli..... that guy.

In our last episode, we were on our way to Singapore. From this rocking train car in India, it seems like a lifetime ago. We are en route to Agra for our journey’s tourist attraction grand finale: the Taj Mahal. But let’s get back to Singapore for a moment. We have a lot of catching up to do!

Singapore is incredible. Beautiful architecture, gardens, shopping centers… and so clean. Fred tells me that gum is illegal there.  What’s more is that I believe him. We arrived at the Intercontinental in the afternoon, jet lagged and bleary-eyed. (No wonder I liked Singapore – we stayed in a couple of very nice places)

That evening my fun, creative husband took me on a date to “Lockdown” – a live mystery game place. It was so cool. They locked us in a room and we had to decode the mystery given what we could discover in the simple, sparse room. We didn’t solve the entire mystery, but I like to think we would have gotten there given enough time and a little less jet lag. It was so fun. I can’t wait to go back and try the other rooms.

Two days in Singapore was not nearly enough to fully experience the place, but I expect we’ll be back. After Singapore, Fred and I went to different places. He had work to do in Manila, and I was going to Sri Lanka to do some volunteer work. After all this time together, 24/7, it was really hard to say goodbye. Or maybe it’s always hard to leave my incredible, handsome, amazing husband… (the one looking over my shoulder as I write this)

I’m going to save the report of my adventures volunteering in Sri Lanka for another post. For now I’ll jump ahead to Sir Fred’s triumphant arrival in Colombo. Unfortunately, he arrived an hour late and sans suitcase; our first and hopefully only lost-luggage experience of the trip. After a few short hours of sleep, we hopped the early morning train to Kandy, the ancient hill country capital and home of the sacred Tooth Relic.

In Kandy we spent an afternoon at the botanic gardens, where we saw monkeys on a trash pile, and then went to see a performance of the legendary Kandy Dancers. The dance critic in me came out in full force here. Maybe I just don’t get it. Or maybe they were having an off night. Either way, I was embarrassed for them, and after an hour of being embarrassed, I was exhausted. We went back to the hotel and skipped seeing the Tooth Relic ceremony. I’m sure the Buddha won’t mind that we didn’t go pay respects to his tooth.

The next day we went to the Pinnawala elephant orphanage. It was actually rather sad. The mahouts don’t treat the elephants very well – they only seem interested in getting you to come close to their elephant for a picture so that they can ask you for money. Nothing like the amazing experience we had in Laos at the elephant sanctuary near Luang Prabang, where we befriended Mae Bunam who took us on a ride through the river and let me feed her bananas. Still, the elephants were amazing to watch. I just wish I had more confidence that they are well cared for and happy. It’s the same dilemma that I have with zoos. I want to see the animals, but I get so sad that they are in captivity – I want to run rescue missions to free them back into their native environment! But maybe zoo life is preferable to the threat of predators? I don’t know.

At this point my intrepid husband decided we needed a car and that he wouldn’t mind driving in the insane Sri Lankan traffic. So we took a train back to Colombo, picked up a car, and drove across the island to Arugam Bay. All in one long day. The drive was brutal and scary and amazing… I’m just grateful Fred was driving. SO hectic, crowded and stressful. But also incredibly beautiful, as we drove through the hill country and saw some amazing scenery. And more monkeys! The red-faced monkey lives in the hills, and the grey languor, with its long tail and triangle-shaped head, lives in the coastal forest near Arugam.

Again we got skunked on the surf. I didn’t catch a single wave the whole week, but I did get a board and fins to the back when a kid wiped out near me. Fred did a little better on his big rented foamer. I should have followed his lead and rented the biggest board I could find. But I didn’t. Fred might tell you that it’s because I never listen, but that’s not true. It’s because I am incredibly vain and only care about how I look. I don’t want to look like a beginner on a foamer! I mean, obviously, I only care about looks – check out my post-surf tuk-tuk hairdo in the photos. Oh the glamour!

We drove back to Colombo via the southern route through part of Yala National Park and spent two days in Hikkadua. There we met a yoga teacher/surfer who is rivaled in intensity only by our surfer buddy Scott at Morocco Surf Adventure. For those of you who know Scott, imagine him about 15 lbs skinnier, all bones and sinew, and talking passionately about yoga instead of surfing. Intense dude. His yoga classes were cancelled due to rain, but I can’t wait to go back and study with him. It might break me, but I’d love to catch some of the fire that man has. He promised to teach our spines how to dance, and that we’d do it by following his guru’s ABCs system. He even gave us laminated cards depicting the series. It looks freaking hard.

From Sri Lanka we flew to Bangkok. By this time I had a cold, so I spent at least one full day there in bed. We had a few meetings, took care of some business and basically recharged. No “Hangover 2” for us in Bangkok! We’ve done the tourist attractions there before, so I don’t feel a bit bad about not seeing more of the city.

After three short days in Bangkok we were off to Hong Kong. We arrived to find warnings posted all over the city about the impending Typhoon Usagi. By then Fred had caught my cold, so after a delicious breakfast at The Flying Pan, we holed up in our little Sheung Wan hotel room to watch the storm from our amazing corner window vantage point. The city basically shut down, and it was cool to see the empty streets, but ultimately it was like watching a rain storm.

The next day we took the tram up Vitoria Peak, walked around the loop at the top, and then walked all the way down to Central. On our way down we wandered into the Hong Kong zoo and visited with the lemurs. I always seem to stumble into this zoo when I’m in Hong Kong. Perhaps all roads lead to the zoo? After our walk, I took the second-most expensive yoga class of my life at Pure Yoga. Having gone so long without a proper class or a place to do my own practice, it felt totally worth it.

And then, in the blink of an eye, we were back on the train to the airport to fly to Manila.

Now, Fred has told me repeatedly about what a difficult place Manila is. The “nice” parts are giant shopping malls, and the “real” parts are third-world slums. So I was very surprised to actually enjoy our time there.  Another amazing fancy hotel experience didn’t hurt. They upgraded us to a room with incredible high ceilings, the most ergonomic bathtub I’ve tried, chocolate truffles with a card addressed to a Mr. So-and-So, and a view of Hermes and Gucci shops from the massive windows.  Who could ask for anything more?

Some facts about Manila. The world’s largest mall is there. All expat life revolves around the various malls. The traffic is always bad, no matter what time of day. There are stray cats everywhere. Certain defunct US restaurant chains are alive and kicking here (Shakey’s Pizza, anyone?). “Jeepneys” are a typical mode of transport for locals. “Vegetarian” dishes often have meat in them. No, not like they used a little beef stock in making the dish, but they actually put a ton of ham, beef and pork bits in there. (See “Assorted Vegetarian Meat in Basket” photo)

While in Manila, Fred and I became godparents. One of Fred’s business associates had a baby on Sept 26th and asked us to be her Godmother and Godfather. Which makes sense because Fred’s resemblance to Marlon Brando is uncanny, as is his tendency to make offers that you can’t refuse. But seriously, her name is Vania and she’s adorable. We got to meet her on her first day in the world. So cool.

The hospital is near Greenhills Shopping Center. Another Manila fact: You can buy real designer handbags at full US-level prices in malls like Greenbelt or The Fort, or you can go to Greenhills to buy the fake versions. Here you will experience the most aggressive sale tactics as you wind your way through the endless stalls of bags. You will be attacked with cries of “SIR MAM BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAG?!?!?” and “MY NEW BEST FRIEND! LOU VATAAAWWWN?!? SIR!?!? BAAAG!!!” as they grab your arm and shove bags in your face.

I will admit – I was sad to leave the luxury of Manila, but knowing that we were headed back to Hong Kong made it easier.

On our second stop through Hong Kong, we took a ferry to Kowloon and walked around the madness of Mong Kok, the most densely populated place in the world. We stopped at a Starbucks to try to rest and use the internet, but it was standing room only. Eventually we got two stools at an occupied table.

The highlight for me on this stop was stumbling onto the best cup of coffee we’ve had since Europe.  The Cupping Room was just across the street from our hotel, but sadly we only found it on our last morning there. We had breakfast there and then came back for one more coffee before heading to the airport. We got to watch them sampling the coffee (called ‘cupping’ – hence the name of the shop). They obviously know what they are doing. My latte was perfection – no need for even a drop of sugar. And then in a flash, we were back in the Hong Kong airport to catch a flight to Delhi, India.

And India, my friends, is another story.

We arrived in Avellino, Italy, the home of my ancestors, about an hour ago. It’s siesta time (nap time is not limited to Spanish-speaking countries), and Fred is partaking in a much deserved rest. The internet here in the hotel is adequate, but I’m not about to push the limits by trying to upload photos. Instead, I’d like to offer a short post on the unsung heroes of this trip. This is not so much a travel tips entry as a shout out to the things that have been indispensable on our journey thus far.

When we set out we agreed to travel light, packing only one carry-on suitcase and one “personal item” each. (No, Fred does not have a murse. He has a messenger bag.) This is normally standard operating procedure for us; but this time it was a particular challenge.  We were packing for more than six months away and for climates ranging from tropical jungle to glacial, for styles ranging from urban chic to beach bum, from cultures ranging from Muslim to Hindi to Catholic.

So here’s a short list of the things that have helped me travel light and have been the most useful in terms of the space and weight in the bag that they occupy. The most bang for the kilogram, so to speak. BTW – I will receive no compensation for promoting these items, no payment for linking to these websites… nada. This is not product placement. This is my honest opinion and a genuine acknowledgement of products that truly rock my world. 

#1: Solid shampoo from LUSH. This stuff is amazing. It takes up hardly any room in your suitcase, is super light, and doesn’t need to go in the ‘liquids and gels’ sandwich bag. I have the Soak and Float for my dry scalp, and NEW!  because it smells nice and Soak and Float is stinky. I can’t believe how well it lathers up, and it seems to last forever. I’ve had mine for months now and they are still going strong. I’m not as enamored with the solid conditioner, unfortunately. It smells great but is not as effective in getting tangles out as most any other liquid conditioner.

#2: Charlie’s Soap laundry powder. One tablespoon is all you need for a large load of laundry, so in a small Ziplock bag I have enough laundry soap to last six months. It’s non-toxic and biodegradable and it gets our clothes really clean. I use it to hand wash laundry and I use it in machines. When you wash your clothes often you don’t need as many outfits. And when you have laundry powder on hand it’s much easier to deal with the last-minute-late-night-I-have-no-clean-underwear problem. Charlie’s Soap has been a lifesaver. On the downside, I think it has caused me to get stopped in the airport security line a few times. Oh the laughs I’ve had with TSA officials over the unmarked white powder brick in my suitcase…

#3: Wheelie Bag. The night before we left we had dinner with a friend in Cabo and he laughed at my suitcase. “How can you be backpackers if you don’t have backpacks?!” Well, for the record, the wheelie bag is the new backpack. It has saved my back and shoulders considerable stress and has never once been an impediment to our more rugged adventures. Not once.  The wheelie bag rules.

In our last episode we were recovering from Morocco and had just begun exploring the French Alps in a diesel powered cube named Picasso. We did some general internet research on interesting things to see in France and used Google Maps to link them together, choosing places that were generally on a route that would deliver us to the South Western coast where we could possibly surf. This basic idea kept us off the major highways, and we crossed France in the smaller two lane country roads. It was amazing.

On leaving Villard du Lans we started on a road that was literally carved into the side of a cliff, with massive rock overhangs above the car and steep cliffs dropping off to a running river below. Many little rock tunnels and a thick green forest below. I’ll attach a photo to this email. Words don’t do it justice.

We made our way to interesting place numero uno - Saint Michel d'Aiguilhe, a great little cathedral (if  there can be such a thing) on the top of a very tall, very steep hill in the center of Le Puy. Le Puy. Really? Le Puy? Seems like a strange name for a town to me. Say it. Leee Puuuuy. Along the road to Le Puy we must have passed through 20 different little French hillside villages, each one more picturesque than the last.

Legend has it that someone, 1050 years ago, had no idea what to do with this enormous volcanic formation, 300 feet tall, that was sitting in the center of Le Puy. Someone else suggested that it was a perfect spot to build a cathedral to celebrate the return from the pilgrimage of Saint James (Thanks Wikipedia).

At that point I’m pretty sure that Someone Number 2 had Someone Else carry large stone blocks up the 268 steps that had been carved into the side of this 'perfect place for a cathedral,' and they successfully constructed an awesome little cathedral atop a massive rock, overlooking most of Le Puy.

The climb up the hill might be rough, but every time I stopped to catch my breath there was another great view and photo opp. So I was able to avoid humiliation by pretending to take photos. Works everytime.

After a brief overnight stay in a town named Aurillac, with another 20 picturesque villages before, and 20 more after, we made it to Rocamadour. Wow. A Castle, a Cathedral and a Town, scaling their way up a vertical cliff. In a deep valley. It looks highly defensible. I get it.

We spent the better part of the day walking up from the valley to the cathedral, and by the time we were done I was glad we started at the bottom, because there is no way I would have had enough energy to make it from the bottom up once we were done. It was fantastic, and even though it seems like Disney has gotten its hands on the little town, it is still worth a visit.

From Rocamadour we drove through another 20 picturesque French villages to the Dordogne region and spent a night in Sarlat, which sounds a little villainous, doesn’t it? Sarlat is the ultimate French Village, with the stone buildings and winding narrow streets, a church and a square every 2 blocks and a ‘regionally themed’ store, restaurant or service everywhere you look. It was nice for an evening, but there didn’t seem to be very many French people there, so we continued on the next morning.

To Castelnaud! A real, legit Castle, with armor, and swords, and catapults, and trebuchets. Tight spiral stairways made of stone, poorly lit with no handrails, and with videos on ‘how to storm a castle’ and ‘why peasants fear swords.’ It was pretty great. They had dioramas on how the castle was under siege from Simon de Montfort and taken from Bernard de Casnac, who then took it back and hanged everyone. Apparently it was a pretty busy place until the mid-1700’s, then it was used as a place to store rocks until the mid-1960’s, when owning a castle became cool again.

We had been driving a lot and had become so overwhelmed with the sheer quantity of quaint villages and amazing castles that we were actually relieved when we got to the apartment in the modern/noisy/dirty port city of Bayonne, which was not, in fact, named after the city in New Jersey near the Statue of Liberty. But I still felt a connection.

The apartment was on a river used as a shipping lane, and beside a highway, with nothing in walking distance, but we liked it. Bayonne is an interesting little city with a lot of French people doing their thing. I don’t think Disney has gotten involved there yet. With Bayonne as a base we spent a couple of days exploring nearby Biarritz, Capbreton and Hossegor.

Biarritz is swank. Fancy fancy. It has the forts and castles and cathedrals and all the other good stuff, as well as a Palace that Napoleon built for his wife Eugenia, which is currently the Hotel du Palais. No, we didn’t stay there. In fact, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t have let me in.

Capbreton is where the Basques go to get tires, appliances and fast food, and Hossegor is where backpackers go because everywhere else is too expensive. It’s also a the base of the Landes forest, which is spectacular in and of itself. But the one thing all 3 places have in common is surf. Good surf. Nice beaches and a lot of surfers. We had a great time here for a few days and then the surf flattened out. No swell.

One of our friends from Mexico, an avid surfer, was coming to meet up with us and catch some waves, but we all got skunked. Luckily we were just over an hour away from Pamplona and it was the week of the San Fermín festival, or Running of the Bulls. Initially the 3 of us intended to go for one night, watch the Running and then continue on to Bilbao. But I’m well aware of my ‘poor impulse control,’ and I knew that I would choose to jump in to the fray. I did some research, ran some numbers and concluded that my chances of survival were pretty good.

Once I announced to Laura and Simon that I was going to do it they said they would too. Simon is in much better shape than I am, and is a much better surfer, and he actually runs. On the beach.  I wasn’t too concerned about him. Laura, also a better surfer, and a runner. Also in better shape. But quite little, not terribly aggressive, and indisputably my better half… I was concerned. I asked her very clearly not to do the Running. Several times. But I received the ageless and effective reply of ‘you’re not the boss of me’ and ‘if you do it, I do it.’

So there we were, the three of us. Outfitted in the white shirt and pants, red scarves tied around the neck and red sash around the waist. Looking good. As first time runners, never having seen the run before, we were total newbs, and the plan was to get up front, start at the head of the pack, get into the bullring with the first group and quickly jump into the stands, before the bulls even made it to the ring. Safety first.

This time I was smart enough to keep my big mouth shut regarding my plans and not plant more ideas into Laura’s beautiful, but obstinate head. Knowing that Laura and Simon were as safe as they could possibly be in this situation, I wanted to hold back a bit and try to actually run with the bulls, maybe even reach out and touch one as we were running.

When we reached the final waiting spot, and the police let the runners start to run I waved Laura and Simon on and yelled that I would find them in the ring, and then ducked into a doorway to wait for the bulls. I never actually saw the bulls, but the flood of runners got faster and faster and the eyes got bigger and bigger, eventually reaching a point I would describe as ‘full frantic.’ My flight instincts kicked in and I began fleeing in earnest.

As we reached the entrance to the tunnel to the bullring I looked back a few times and still didn’t see the bulls, just eyeballs and elbows as the other runners sprinted with me. I knew this was the choke point, where bad things happen, but I was pretty sure I could make it to the ring before the bulls did, so I put the hammer down and give it all I had to get there fast.

At the end of the tunnel, at the entrance to the bullring there was a wall of people, and I recall one man pointing at me and yelling in Spanish, like he was telling me to turn around and go away. I was having none of it. “Screw that guy, I’m heading for the ring!” Actually he was trying to warn me that the bulls were right behind me.

And there I was, pinned against that guy and many others, by a bull. A mildly upset bull that wasn’t terribly happy about the mountain of people in front of him, the other pushy bulls beside him, and that one jerk of a bull that kept trying to get a piggyback ride, or climb over him.

I was there for about 2 minutes, pinned so hard that I was able to lift my feet up so the bull’s searching hoofs didn’t step on them. I had enough time to realize I should be grateful we were all pinned so tight, because the bulls didn’t have enough room to actually do anything. And also to realize that once they did get some room it was going to get ugly fast.

There were people in the stands reaching over and lifting people out, and the people in the pack were helping push, and eventually someone reached down and grabbed my hand, and others helped push. Because we were so tight I couldn’t bend my legs to help, and had to literally be dragged up and over the wall.

Around the same time, a matador gate was opened so the bulls could get out of the crowd, and the mountain got small enough that 2 bulls were able to jump over the people. I made it to the stands, on the left side where we agreed to meet, and immediately found Simon and Laura tucked away in a setback below the seating. Simon had gotten out of the pile up early on and had been helping people get out, but Laura had been buried at the bottom the entire time and was pretty beat up.

I felt, and still feel, terrible that I wasn’t there to help and protect Laura. Logically I know that there is nothing I could have done, in fact I might have made it worse. But I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.

We survived the Running of the Bulls. Obviously. A little beat up, but mobile.  And we were on a schedule, we needed to see the Mundaka surf break and make it to Bilbao for a little Guggenheim cultural action. Which we did, but to be honest we were all a little shell shocked from our experience that morning, so neither spot made a huge impression on us.

Remember Laura’s buddies that we were going to see in Vienna, but changed to Lisbon? Scratch Lisbon, now its Cadiz. We took our time and drove down to Cadiz, stopping at Burgos and Salamanca on the way. France might win in terms of sheer quantity of quaint villages, but Spain makes up for it in incredibly well maintained old towns. We saw 2000 year old Roman ruins in Merida and phenomenal cathedrals in Salamanca, and some very authentic drunks passed out in the shade in Burgos.

Then we made it to Cadiz, founded by Hercules and the oldest standing city in Europe. We found it pretty underwhelming. It was nice. Cool little streets, some great tapas, many genuine Spaniards, but not terribly interesting or inspiring. We had a good time with Jamie and Lindsey, went to the beach once, talked about driving to Gibraltar to see the Barbary Apes, and then went to Madrid where Laura had an appointment to check out IE Business School.

Madrid is a great city, I’ll say it again. We really like it, but we had a rental car for another week and it needed to be returned in France, so we decided to go back to Biarritz and maybe get some surfing in.

Skunked again. Surf report- Flaaaaaat. So Biarritz was very relaxing.

Simon had taken off for London and Amsterdam, and Laura’s near death experience had opened her eyes to the wonders of collegiate testing, so we booked apartments in Paris for 2 weeks, which will culminate in her taking the GMAT test, our wedding anniversary the next day, and our departure from Paris the day after that.

We got to Paris two days ago, spent two hours finding the apartment and another two hours finding a gas station and returning the rental car. Adios Picasso!

Note- If I had to choose between Running the Bulls and driving in Paris I would need to really think about the pros and cons of each. Driving in Paris might not be quite as dangerous, but it is infinitely more frustrating.

We are in a great old apartment on a private cobblestone alley, with roughhewn wood beams, a strong internet connection and equally strong coffee. Laura is upstairs studying for the test, I’m trying to get my mind back on the ‘work track.’ and we haven’t yet figured out where were going when we leave Paris. Italy? Greece? Someone suggested Romania, but I’m still thinking about it.

This morning I was lying at the bottom of a pile of people in the entrance to the bull ring in Pamplona, Spain. There was no way out, and the bulls were coming.

We decided rather haphazardly and at the last minute to attend the running of the bulls. While visiting business schools in Europe, Fred and I met someone who was headed to Pamplona for the opening day of the San Fermín festival. Well sure, that would be interesting to see. Once in a lifetime, right? I feel bad for the bulls, though.  And it seems like such a stupid, macho thing to do. Running with bulls, trying to touch them, risking death or severe injury.

Our friend Simon was on his way to meet us in Southwestern France. Good surf, nice beaches… maybe we’ll pass on Pamplona this time. Except the surf went flat and we were having trouble finding accommodation at a reasonable price. So okay, it’s off to Pamplona! We met people on the beach in San Sebastian and in the streets of Pamplona who had run. No problem! It’s easy, just play it safe. Well okay, maybe I’ll just start near the end, run way ahead and get into the bull ring before even seeing the bulls. I don’t care if the people in the bull ring stands boo me. I’m just not letting my husband run without me.

I read up on running strategy, what to do, what not to do, how many people on average get gored, how many people have died, what to look out for and where on the course people typically get in trouble. If you fall, stay down and cover your head. Watch not just for the bulls behind you but for the people who fall in front of you. Don’t drink the night before and don’t run drunk. Get some sleep the night before. Wear the outfit, don’t carry anything and respect tradition.

Prior to the Encierro I never once felt truly scared. I was playing it safe, remember? I got eight hours of good sleep the night before. I don’t drink, so running drunk or hungover wasn’t an issue. I’m in pretty good shape, and can run fast when I need to. Being a small, nimble person, I can also scamper, jump, climb, leap, and squeeze under fences no problem. I had on the white shirt and pants, red scarf around my neck, red sash around my waist, and my good Nikes. I felt confident that I was taking the safe, non-macho approach. I had no daredevil pride, nothing to prove. I was ready to flee and scamper and look foolish in the name of safety.

There were all types of people near us where we waited for the start. There was the Englishman who lives in Florida, in Pamplona for his buddy’s 50th birthday, who was chatting with a young German fellow. In front of me were two older guys from Southern Cali, both taking pictures with their iPhones. A group of young guys from Portugal were recording a video for their grandkids on a smartphone. One of the youngsters high-fived me for being one of only two girls he saw in the lineup. He said, “You’re really cool!” and I replied, “Or maybe really stupid!” I still had no idea, no fear.

When the rocket went off and the running began, I was maybe 50 feet from the entrance to the ring. No problem! I will just run in, go left and hop over the wall. I was watching in front, and glancing behind. No bulls yet, and I’m in the entrance hall to the ring. All good. Then before I could see or react to anything, I was pushed onto a pile of bodies blocking the entire entrance to the ring. And in seconds I was face down in the dirt with the whole mess of people on top of me.

At the bottom of the pile of people, when I realized there was no way I could claw my way out, I resigned myself to death and braced myself for the impact of bull hooves crushing my skull. There was a man’s leg underneath me, twisted out at an impossible angle. I heard someone screaming, wailing. My mind interpreted the sound to mean ‘please dear God help me’ but I have no idea what language he spoke or if he even used words at all.

The sound of the crowd (screaming in horror? cheering?) came in waves. At each crescendo, I imagined the bulls fighting their way over the mountain of bodies. I tried to do what was advised, stay down and cover your head. I said out-loud, “I’m going to die.” I thought about my husband, who was behind us, and hoped he didn’t get caught. I thought about Simon, who was ahead of me, and hoped he made it into the ring.

I never thought to pray. All my yogic training went out the window; all the chants I’ve learned for these dire situations, they never crossed my mind. I simply shut down and prepared for the final blow.

There was open space just ahead of me, but I was hopelessly pinned to the ground. I dug at the dirt with my hands. I saw people on top of me getting pulled out of the pile. I began to scream for help reaching my arms out, completely helpless. I have never felt so helpless in my entire life. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, a man began to pull my arms. He was wearing the bright official gear of the medics and other professionals on the scene. It was hopeless, he couldn’t pull me out. Then another man grabbed my arm to help. They pulled me right out of my running shoes. I never even saw their faces as I sobbed “thank you” and ran for the edge of the pen. 

When I got to the wall and tried to climb over, there was a man on the other side holding his viewing spot, unwilling to move or help me. My friend Simon spotted me trying to get over the wall, begging for help, and came to my rescue (the second rescue in perhaps 30 seconds). He lifted me up and over the wall. I stumbled to sit in a filthy corner of the walkway.

Then the panic hit that my dear irreplaceable love of my life might not be okay. In the third lucky stroke of the morning, I then saw him walk past unharmed. The three of us all made it out of complete disaster, far better than so many of the people around us. There was a guy, young, sitting next to me sobbing and trying to call someone on his cell. I couldn’t understand what he said, but I reached out and held his hand. People were going by on stretchers.

We had to fight our way out of the stadium. I had dirt, skin and blood scraped down the front of my legs and my right elbow. I felt a stinging lump on my forehead, probably from someone kicking my head. I walked a bit in my socks through the wet streets; sloshing through piss, puke, broken glass and plastic cups. Fred insisted I let him carry me, so for several long blocks I rode piggy back.

I didn’t even see a bull and yet my life flashed before my eyes, and now I’m hurting. Bad.

I read all the accounts of how amazing you feel afterwards. That feeling of having cheated death, to live to fight another day. That’s such crap. I feel horrible. I was completely helpless, and then totally unable to help anyone else. I feel guilty that the guys spent their energy pulling me out, when so many others still needed attention. My heart aches for the senseless suffering of the people and the animals in that Encierro. Above all I feel shame for having participated. Of all the stupid things I’ve done in my life, this is by far the most idiotic. 

I’m sharing this with you in the hopes that, if you are someone searching the internet for “tips on running with the bulls” or “how to stay safe in the Pamplona Encierro,” you will read this and think twice about participating. It’s just not worth it. 

At the bottom of the pile of bodies, my mind kept trying to comprehend how I ended up there. I never took the warnings seriously, and I listened to too many drunken bravado stories of survival. I was cocky. I thought I could outsmart, outrun, and out scramble the thousands of others in the run. I thought I was playing it safe. I thought the odds were in my favor. Perhaps they were, but I still got trampled.

The wonderful woman at the pharmacy, who is also named Laura, said it is my “nuevo feliz cumpleaños” or “new birthday” today. July 13, 2013, the day I cheated death. The day I was born again. It doesn’t feel that way. I’m sad and embarrassed, my knee is swollen, my body hurts, my skin stings. Never again.

I also didn't know that the bullfighters later kill these bulls in the ring. I'm horrified to have participated in such a barbaric event. I'm a vegetarian because I refuse to let animals be killed for my gastronomic pleasure. What is wrong with me that I didn't think this through?

To the men who pulled me out, I feel the deepest respect and gratitude. To all of the amazing people, putting their own lives at risk to help others, I bow humbly. The firemen, police, and paramedics on the scene… I do not know how they do it. I am humbled and I am so grateful.

Espain and Morocco

After month and a half in South America we were ready for a little convenience. When we got off the plane in Madrid we were towards the head of the pack stampeding for the customs area, which I was grateful for when I saw that there were only 2 manned booths. But it made almost no difference because they were stamping the passports as fast as they possibly could and we were out of there so quickly that I made a mental note. Always enter Europe via Madrid...

Then we caught the subway from the airport, made one transfer and 30 minutes later were at the outrageously cool apartment in the malasaña neighborhood. It was one of the great old buildings that had an elevator fitted inside the turns of the spiral stairway and was probably powered by steam initially. The elevator was so small that it could fit Laura and I, or our luggage. But not both. And we travel carry-on. So we met our luggage on the 2nd floor. Which is really the 3rd floor because the Europeans count the ground floor of a building as '0', not '1'. And yes, I did try to enter the apartment on the wrong floor once. English is easy, math are hard.

Madrid was a reminder of all the Western things that I take for granted. Like being able to understand a menu, having the prices match the ones on the bill, and the food match what I thought I ordered. Being able to decide to go get a coffee. Actually finding a coffee. Getting coffee that tastes like coffee. Going to the Prado and being completely overwhelmed by the quality of the art, the condition it is still in after so many hundreds of years, and the overwhelming quantity of it. Having Laura come back from a yoga class stoked because the instructor and the class knew what they were doing and were very into it. Seeing a lot of very cool motorcycles everywhere. Basically, Madrid is great, and while it sucks to be a Spaniard in the current economic crisis, it has a fantastic quality/price ratio for anyone who wants to visit.

After 4 days in Madrid we jumped back on the subway, went to the airport and hopped on a plane to Casablanca. From the Casablanca airport we boarded a connector train to the station in town and then changed to a train to Marrakech, where we stayed for one of the most stressful 36 hour holidays of my life.

My first interaction with someone in Morocco quickly devolved into yelling and shouting, name calling and fist waving. Apparently the local cab drivers take offense when you suggest their prices are too high and ask them where you can find a cab that has a meter. We drew quite a crowd, I was having a great time hollering 4 letter words and generally giving Canadians a bad name. Laura was totally mortified. (Sorry Canada, I can’t resist stating 'That’s not how we do it in Ottowa' when I’m being an Ugly American).

After I made a public spectacle of myself, and blatantly went to the most beat up cab in the row, to prove that I would rather ride in a beater than have anything to do with the first cab, we finally made it to our Riad. (Laura still mortified)  A Riad is basically a small fortress with ugly but strong looking walls and 2-3 floors with rooms facing an inner courtyard, which is usually very nice. Ours was deep in the Medina, which is the old area that has no streets, just tiny alleys, so we had to haul our luggage a few blocks, down alleys the width of a typical hallway, being passed by scooters and donkeys. We loved it. No, really.

Once we were settled in Riad Al Karama (which was excellent, btw) we set out in the early evening to see the Medina and Jemaa El Fna square. For the first hour or so it was fantastic. There were so many people and so much activity all around us. We went to the Cafe De France and sat there drinking Moroccan mint tea.

The Medina is interesting because there are 2 completely separate worlds colliding. It is still the central marketplace for the locals. They go down when it cools off in the evening to buy groceries, shoes, iPhones, and hang out with their buddies. And it’s also a huge tourist trap. Imagine combining Walmart, Disneyland and East LA.

To sit at a cafe and watch the amazing madness of the Jemaa el Fna square is one thing. To actually enter it and become a part of it is very different.

The food court, in the middle, seems to have 3 types of restaurants. I’m told there are 450 restaurants, or food stalls, but they all basically have the same thing. What differentiates one from the next is the quality (aggressiveness) and skill (smooooove) of their 'Touts'. The most common technique was to grab my arm and step directly in front of me, slightly inside what most Westerners consider the 'comfort zone', then smile wide and say 'Bonsoir, Deutsch, Hi Boddy, Where from, good food, best' while steering me to the picnic table that clearly had the very best food in all of Morocco.

Every single food stall seemed to have 2-3 of these guys, all competing for the commission on a seated customer.  It was not uncommon to have one on each of my arms, each leading me to a different stall, which I found confusing. Interesting point, they all seemed to understand the expression 'she has no money' and generally left Laura alone.

Also, having spent the last 15 years living in Brooklyn (mostly), I do not react well when someone grabs my arm and steps inside my 'comfort zone.' Mentally I knew that it was no big deal, but it was very difficult not to strike out and yell 'Ottowa!' When we would return to the Riad it was a huge relief and I totally get why you would want to have a walled fortress, with one very small door to the outside in that town.

The next day we wandered around, saw some ancient mosques, some really old graves, really great and intricate tile work. We were ushered into a 'secret' store that sold all kinds of magic potions and powders, and had a private consultation with a guy in a lab coat that showed us magic powder aphrodisiacs. Powders that would remove body fat from certain places, but not others. Wrinkle removing powders, age reducing powders, more aphrodisiac powders, and even ancient Kohl eyeliner that would give Laura ‘Gazelle eyes.' It totally worked.

We had so many locals trying to 'help us' that we wound up wandering out of the Medina and getting lost near the Royal Palace (they hate it when you take pictures there, but I think they are very photogenic regardless). We made it back into the Souks in the Medina and noticed a shop that seemed to have really old jewelry and flint lock pistols, urns, and other various things that visitors would like. That was my first exposure to what I have begun calling 'the method.'

1.Act busy. Polish something, take something apart. Put something back together. It’s okay to have the television playing a rerun starring David Hasselhof, but only if it has been overdubbed in Arabic.

2. Notice the customer and usher them into your little store, close door behind them to signify that you don’t like to be disturbed, but you’ll make an exception for these fine people.

3. Tea. You can refer to the superiority of all things Berber, and make general small talk while the tea is brewing, but don’t speak about anything in the shop. If questions are asked, divert.

4. Pour a cup of tea for each customer, and insist that they take it. Do it. Tell them it is rude to refuse Moroccan hospitality.

5. Ask personal questions. Use each question as an opener to tell them about yourself. How you would love to visit The Canada (Go Ottowa!), or any other place the customer has an interest in. Tell them the names of your children, how old they are, their dreams and life goals. Support with photos.

6. At this point you pretty much own them and they are ready for the Next Level pitch, the one where you notice what they are looking at and show them something similar, but lower quality, and suggest a really, really, really high price, so that when they ask about the first one you can quote a really, really high price and it seems like a good deal to them.

7. Damn, that Canadian jerk of a husband has left the store to check the interwebs and his wife only has $20 on her! Insist that you are losing money by accepting the $20 price for the $2 trinket, but that since you like them so much you are willing to make the deal.

I wonder if I can use this technique and apply it to online sales…?

Marrakech was amazing, unlike any place I have ever been, but by day three I was a beaten man and was willing to pay whatever they asked if it would result in our being on the bus to Agadir.

For the next 7 days we were basically in a summer camp for adults, just North of Agadir and South of Taghazout if you want to Google Map it.

Wake up at 6:30, maybe jump in the truck and go surfing, maybe take a yoga class, maybe don’t. Have breakfast. Jump in the truck again. Surf. Lunch. Surf some more. If internet is working get some work done. Or nap. Dinner. Sleep, repeat.

Day one we went out for a dawn session, but the surf was small so we took a field trip to Paradise Valley for the afternoon. Unbelievably beautiful. (See attached photos) Like a desert oasis, with deep clear pools and little cliff jumps. And turtles. Little ones.

We had a couple of unfortunate experiences with localism in the waves, but other than that it was a pretty contained experience. The few times we went into Awrir or Taghazout it was nice, little Moroccan beach towns, with a much lower stress level than Marrakech.

We weren’t sure where to go from Morocco, so we did some general searches on flights to major European cities, and Paris was only $200, so that was a no brainer. Airbnb.com had an apartment at a good price listed in Montmartre, home of Amalie and Le Sacré-Cœur, and advertised as ‘near the Gare du Nord’ so we booked it and took a cab there from Orly. Easy Peasy.

The apartment was very nice, and the owner was great, but the neighborhood was actually Goutte d'Or, and is commonly referred to as the 'worst' neighborhood in Paris. Not being a Frankophone (No Hablo Francais), I can’t be sure, but I suspect that 'near Gare du Nord' loosely translates to 'lots of dodgey hookers'.

The area is comprised of many tight, small streets and right angles are frowned upon.   Laura suggested that wandering around with our faces buried in a tourist map, or following the blinking dot on our $500 smartphones were both classified as 'not good' in idea-land.

We wandered around a lot, and made some friends, saw some interesting markets, discovered the shops that supply pimps with their awesome suits, and learned that West African hookers, while very sweet, are terrible at giving directions.

Paris was great. We saw some old friends, had some great meals, took some photos that could theoretically be from the perspective of the rooftop of a Cathedral that was built in 1509 has been closed to the public for 'a long time.' And taken late at night.

Then it was time to hit the road and explore Europe. We rented a car through Hertz and because Laura is kind of a big deal around there, we got upgraded to a Citroen Picasso, which looks like a minivan, or space shuttle, or maybe a brick. But its diesel and we get about 800 Kilometers to a tank. And don’t need to worry about speeding tickets because it is not very fast.

Our first stop out of Paris was Fontainebleu. About 55 Kilometers South of Paris, but a 3 hour drive at 1 PM because of the hellish Paris traffic. Now I understand why the public transportation is so good. And there are so many scooters and motorcycles. And French people in LA.

Laura had an appointment to tour INSEAD, and I joined her for the day. It was amazing. I was so impressed with Fontainebleu and INSEAD that I would consider going back to school for their one year MBA program. Maybe. Maths are hard.... but it’s tempting.

After Fontainebleu we were going to head towards Normandy and then drive South along the French Atlantic coast. But then we found out that some friends of Laura’s were performing in Vienna, so we pointed Picasso to the East.

We planned to make it to Geneva, but were so distracted by France that we only made it to a small town named Saint Claude around 11 PM. We woke up to an amazing view of a phenomenal little French Alps town and to the news that only one of her friends would be in Vienna, but both would be in Lisbon on the 13th.

Strike Vienna, add Lisbon to our vague and generally unspecific plans, which at this point probably shouldn’t be referred to as ‘plans.’

Then we went to Geneva, driving through some spectacular mountains. Really amazing. Geneva was great, really beautiful. A lot of million dollar cars driving around. The water in the lake was so clear it looked like it had been filtered. And we continued, around lake Annecy, and up into the Alps, on the French side of Chamonix and Mont Blanc, through Grenoble, to the tiny little ski town of Villard de Lans.

Which is where we are now. And loving it.

Today we plan to head towards Saint Michel d'Aiguilhe because there was something interesting there. I don’t remember what, but I’m pretty sure we will find it. Then we intend to continue on towards North-Western Spain and the French Atlantic. Crossing through Rocamadour, Dordogne, and Bordeaux on our way to San Sebastian. Which is very close to Pamplona. The Running of the Bulls week begins on July 6. Think about it.

Fred and I decided: It only qualifies as an "adventure" if you swear you'll never do it again. Taking a boat down the Amazon was definitely an ADVENTURE.

When we went to the port in Manaus to check it out, the guy selling the tickets gave us a ride in a little speedboat to where the Liberty Star was docked. We scrambled from the speedboat up the side of the big boat, climbing on the big tires and over the rails... and we were hooked! "What a fun adventure this is," we thought. This was before we established the definition for "adventure."

Most locals hook up hammocks for the ride, but we decided to go big and get our own cabin. Not one of the cabins with bunk beds, but the "Master Suite" with a double bed and private bathroom with a shower. We even talked him down a bit on the price, so for just $500 we were going to cruise down the Amazon in style.

Just so you don't make the same mistake we did, here are some details on the unpleasant surprises. But make no mistake, I'm glad we did it and I'm grateful to have had this experience.

Unpleasant surprise #1: The bathroom uses river water. Brown, stinky, unfiltered river water. We wouldn't even wash our hands in there, so no way were we taking showers. For five days. No showers for five days.

Unpleasant surprise #2: Not only is the food horrible, it's expensive. We had heard that 3 meals a day were included in the price on most boats. Not on the Liberty Star! Hello chips and cookies for breakfast lunch and dinner.

Unpleasant surprise #3: The pipe. In the room. Rattling with the vibration of the engine. All day. All night. Like being inside a snare drum.

So after five days of boat life, we were relieved to arrive in Belém. Another grand adventure under our belts!