Wandering Lotus

Monday Travel Tip: Best Time to Buy Airfare

2012-01-29T14:05:00.002Z

According to a report on NPR news last week, the best time to purchase your plane tickets is exactly six weeks prior to your date of departure. Six weeks, exactly—no more, no less. Per a previous travel tip, purchasing your tickets online on Tuesday mornings, just after midnight, will also bring you the best bargains.

Happy Travels!

A Sort Of Mardi Gras

2012-01-24T15:28:00.001Z

Mardi Gras hits Main Street Honesdale on February 18, 2012. With a twist: Instead of going big and chaotic, a la New Orleans, Honesdale is keeping it quaint. Parading down Main Street, on sidewalks instead of the actual street, floats will be crafted from baby carriages, hospital beds, wheelbarrows, wagons and bikes. You won't find any nudity or sloppy drunks. We keep our entertainment strictly G-rated here in Northeastern Pennsylvania.

Location is Everything

2012-01-18T20:43:00.000Z

Surrounded by gently rolling evergreen hills accented with crystal clear glacial lakes, Scranton, Pennsylvania enjoys a superb location. The Pocono and Endless Mountains, part of the ancient Appalachian Trail, vertically-challenged, but also verdant, quaint, loom a mere 20 minutes from downtown Scranton. Art Deco architectural gems, a nod to the town's halcyon days of the 1920s and '30s, are scattered throughout the city. The University of Scranton, Commonwealth Medical College, an abundance of yoga and dance studios, Triple A baseball and AHL hockey teams make the area culturally, intellectually and athletically rich. Historic landmark office buildings redeveloped as luxury apartment complexes, an influx of cafes and art galleries have revitalized the once depressed downtown area. Scranton even boasts a world-class airport.

Sounds great, right? So what's the problem? You already know. If you've heard of Scranton, it is an absolute given that you know it as one of the armpits of the country. Scranton cheerfully embraces its reputation as a joke.

I don't get it. I thumb through Scranton's tourist magazine and am greeted by ads touting tours of The Office, the NBC sitcom that pokes merciless fun at Scranton. The Office, of course, does not film in Scranton. When a town's greatest claim to fame is being the fictional setting of a disturbingly comedic TV show, that's not good. Even more dubiously, Scranton's other sales hooks are its now-defunct steam railroad system and coal mining history.

"Scranton was number three on Hitler's bomb list," my Aunt Sylvia repeatedly bragged. She offered this up as proof that Scranton was once legitimate. If the world's most evil and deranged perpetrator of genocide deemed Scranton worthy of decimation, well then, Scranton must have once been important.

Even so, I ask you this: Why on earth would anyone, today, go on vacation to tour a coal mine?

This is not how I would market Scranton. I grew up here, moved away in 1978, fled, leaving behind brutal winters, sweltering summers and a town that was even more depressed than me. Like everyone else, I could find no redeeming features in Scranton, Pennsylvania. I returned 34 years later with a different perspective that evolved after I began flying into Scranton from California and France and South America and India and Bali. From the air, Scranton is beautiful.

On the ground now I'm still marveling at beauty that's been here all along, but somehow remained hidden from me. And the location! A mere two hours drive from New York City and Philadelphia, with Long Island's beaches, the Jersey shore, Lake George in the Adirondacks and Washington, DC all less than four hours away. Scranton is close to everything, yet worlds away from true urban mishigas.

This past Monday was Martin Luther King Day. After six weeks of living in Scranton, I too have a dream. My dream is to launch a Northeastern Pennsylvania travel magazine, one that focuses on the natural beauty of the area and edits out all kitschy references to mediocre TV shows and dirty, nasty coal. One that advocates for a new rail system connecting Scranton to New York and Philadelphia and other Northeast Corridor hot spots. One that stresses the meaning of Pennsylvania: Penn's woods. One that underscores the most important feature any town could have: Scranton is voraciously dog-friendly.

Scranton is fabulous. Remember, you heard that here.

Winter Fun in the Pocono Mountains

2012-01-05T19:23:00.001Z

Full disclosure: The Pocono Mountains of Northeastern Pennsylvaniause the word "mountains" loosely. With a peak elevation of 2,693 feet (Elk Hill's North Knob), let's face it, the Poconos are mere hills. But they are pretty hills, covered in evergreens and laced with lakes, rivers and streams. Home to hundreds of owls and bald eagles. From what I've been told, you can trust eagles. Anyplace to which they migrate is a fine place indeed.

While I could craft this post about how much I miss the Sierra Nevadas and Himalayas. Or how I wish I'd wound up in the Rockies instead of the Poconos, I'm choosing to focus on the positive (New Year's resolution). The quaint towns of the Poconos, home to stores with names such as Country Junction,Woehrle's Bait Shop and Tannery Depot General Store, are just the sort of places I seek out when I travel. That delicate balance of stuff to do and people with which to do it, but not too many people.

Here are some of the ways we Pocono people have fun during the fallow season:

Ice Tee Golf Tournament. 9 holes of golf on a course created atop of frozen Lake Wallenpaupack. Prizes for "craziest" sled, "wackiest" hat and the golfers who land the closest drive to "Wally Paupack," the snowman-mascot of the Pocono "Mountains" Lake Region.

Snowtubing. Camelback, Jack Frost, Ski Big Bear, Shawnee and the rest of the ski "mountains" boast 100% snowmaking, which is an environmental atrocity, but that's another story. The bottom line is that the skiing and boarding here suck. But the snowtubing is awesome, especially for families with young kids.

Spas and Resorts. Okay, so here's something the Pocono "Mountains" of Pennsylvania do to perfection: Relaxation. God, the spas here are AMAZING. The architecture; the scenery. The spa treatments themselves. Enjoy true luxury in a French chateau or Italianate mansion. Many of the high-end hotels and spas here were built in the 1800s with local timber and stone.

Historic Sites. Founded in 1659 (long before the mass genocide of every local native American, but that's another story), the Pocono "Mountains" have been around since the beginning of this illustrious country. Superb oil paintings from the Hudson River School grace the walls of the Hotel Fauchere in Milford. Grey Towers, also in historic Milford (400 of the town's 655 buildings have been declared "historically significant," according to Travel + Leisure magazine), was one of the first sites to be deemed a National Historic Landmark. Quirky museums, tons of railroad memorabilia, coal mining monuments and more, including the town of Jim Thorpe, named for an athlete who never set foot there.

Honestly, I don't know how we pack so much fun into a 2,693-foot hill.

5 Travel-Inspired New Year's Resolutions

2012-01-02T00:09:00.000Z

With my year of travel officially over and my next journey, an Easter-time trip to South America, still in the dream phase, I spent this New Year's Day reflecting on what I've learned from being on the road, and how to integrate those lessons into my present life.

Make friends. My favorite destinations—Gulmarg (Kashmir), the South of France, Bali, San Francisco, Goa—are all about the friends I met. Maybe extraordinary settings draw extraordinary people. Or maybe my surroundings inspired me to connect deeply with others. As I face my new life in my old hometown and feel my resistance to making connections, I have to remember every place is paradise if I surround myself with good friends.

Read more books. Honestly, I feel my IQ rise when I'm traveling for one main reason: Without TV I'm forced to read. Traveling inspired my interest in politics. It motivated me to become an animal activist. It made the simple act of stumbling upon an English-language bookstore or library a euphoric experience. When I read, I care about my world. When I watch TV, I don't.

Learn a foreign language. The strongest envy I feel is when I'm listening to my travel friends converse easily in two or three, even four, languages. Multi-lingual people are more intelligent, more interesting and more useful.

Take classes. Writers workshops, yoga, ski lessons all create fantastic environments for meeting likeminded people. Staying home with JuJu, my Tibetan Terrier/Poodle mix (aka "Toodle") puppy, does not.

Earn my living as a freelance writer. It's hard to travel when I'm working 9 to 5. I didn't appreciate what I had until I didn't have it anymore. Note to all my former and present editorial clients: Thank You. Working for you afforded me freedom, and freedom is truly priceless. P.S.: I'm still available for hire.

Home for the Holidays

2011-12-24T16:00:00.001Z

JuJu surveying his kingdom on Christmas Eve

San Francisco, Marin County, India, Bali, San Diego, Scranton. I covered a lot of territory in 2011. Looking forward, with gratitude, to see what wanderings 2012 will bring. Wishing all a Merry Christmas.

Pet-Friendly Motels

2011-12-10T16:11:00.001Z

My drive across the country, from San Diego, CA, to Scranton, PA, was uneventful. Even the snow and "wicked wind" storms--the Rockies version of the Santa Anas--did little to add excitement to the trip. Route 80 straight across is fast and efficient, but boring as hell. Since JuJu, my Tibetan Poodle, rode shotgun, I stayed in Motel 6s for four of the seven nights I was on the road.

With Motel 6 you know what you're going to get: a bed, desk, night table, shower and sink. TV. Wi-Fi. No microwave or hotpot in the room, although complimentary coffee is usually available in the lobby from 6 a.m. to 10 a.m. But, for pet owners, Motel 6 offers the ultimate amenity: your dog/cat stays for free. The average cost of a Motel 6 room for one is $44.95 plus tax.

Compared to Nevada and Ohio, the Motel 6 near Cheyenne, Wyoming, which featured an indoor pool, was luxurious. Other motels that allow pets, with a fee, include: Comfort Inn, Super 8 and Holiday Express, all of which are considerably more pricey and comfy than Motel 6.

JuJu seemed to enjoy the Super 8 Motel in Omaha the most. The room was huge and featured two double beds from which JuJu hopped back and forth. I liked the Comfort Inn near Chicago best, but at $99.25 a night, it was a one-time splurge, and the only splurge I made during my trans-continental drive.

Notes From the Road

2011-12-01T03:29:00.001Z

"Why are you doing the yoga?" the Utah talk show host demands. "Doing the yoga is SIN. It's an occult practice. You're worshipping idols."

Her caller is audibly shaken. He just wants to stay flexible, ease his back pain. He does not want to go to hell for stretching his hamstrings.

Too bad, the talk show host insists. The Bible is full of stories that warn against worshipping idols and if you're doing the yoga, well then, you're worshipping idols. Because those yoga poses are prayers to the Hindu gods. Besides, she says, studies show regular stretching is more effective than yoga for keeping the body flexible.

I'm driving from San Francisco to Scranton, Pennsylvania, taking the quick route—I-80 straight across the country. Radio reception is often scant. My choices were Utah lady talk show host or Rush Limbaugh.

Limbaugh, too, has some pretty wacky beliefs. "NO ONE HAS ANY MONEY." That was his mantra on Wednesday morning. Europe is broke and we're not far behind. Actually, Rush, we're way ahead of Europe. One caller expressed my thoughts. Someone must have money. If we're all borrowing, we must be borrowing from someone. Rush couldn't answer that question.

But I can. The Rockefeller and the Rothschild family empires have all the money. They own all the banks. They own all the oil companies. I've been accused of anti-Semitism for mentioning the Rothschilds in a negative light, which effectively scared me off from voicing my political and economic beliefs for a good four months. But I'm over it. Listening to Rush spew his insanity for a couple of hours will do that.

JuJu and I are sitting out a wicked winds/snow storm in the Wasatch Mountains of Wyoming. We're in the Wagon Wheel Motel. My standards for shelter have dipped as precipitously as the Rockies rise. Compared to the usual Motel 6, this is actually charming.

The locals at the diner down the road were appalled. They think Wagon Wheel is decrepit and overpriced. But, since this is my only option, I'm choosing to be grateful. I have Wi-Fi, coffee, TV, a working gas heater. If only I had some sane radio options for the road.

Four Favorite SoCal Eateries

2011-11-26T20:15:00.001Z

Finding great places to grab a yummy vegan meal is not exactly challenging in Southern California's coastal towns. In fact, the options are overwhelming. My favorite restaurants are never all about the food and service. I require a certain je ne sais quois and, also affordability. Views, outdoor seating where my dog can join me, and nice bathrooms rank highly too. Here's a roundup of my favorite places to munch when I'm in SoCal:

Cardiff-by-the Sea

Ki's Restaurant, Cardiff-by-the Sea. All animal ingredients are sustainably and humanely raised, and, whenever possible, locally sourced. Amazing view of some of the most beautiful coastline in the world. Dinner for 2 can easily come in under $40. My fave dish: stir-fried fresh seasonal veggies sauteed in pineapple tamari sauce over brown rice topped with cashews and tofu.

I lived in Encinitas for 13 months in the 90's

Lotus Cafe & Juice Bar, Encinitas. On first glance, I fell in love with the giant Ganesha (my favorite god) statues. The menu, too, is enormous. I usually order grilled seasonal veggies in balsamic vinegar with crispy tempeh (which reminds me of Bali), brown rice and a side salad. For a high protein, lighter meal, try Yogi Bliss. Best of all: outdoor seating that welcomes your dog, even when he/she is not displaying angelic behavior.

Hill Street Cafe, Oceanside. Try the vegan surf and turf—a huge tofu steak and portobello mushroom marinated and grilled to perfection, with brown rice, sauteed veggies and salad. Delish! I also love the garlic sauteed greens. The staff, like most SoCal coastal people, exudes friendliness. Outdoor seating for those who prefer to dine with their pets.

Lotus Thai Bistro, Carlsbad. Perhaps I favor anything with "lotus" in it's name, but this is by far the best Thai food I've ever enjoyed. And that includes every dish I ate while in Thailand. Serves traditional Thai food along with house specialties. You can specify how spicy you like your dish on a scale from 1 to 10. Hint: 7 is too spicy. Quantities are big enough to carve out three meals from most dishes, so bring along a friend or two.

The Best Souvenir. Ever.

2011-11-14T00:26:00.001Z

JuJu' s Facebook Pic

Camp Pendleton, the Marine Corps base in Oceanside, California, houses its animal shelter in a utilitarian gray building set in a compound of similar buildings. Barbed wire coils atop the fence, sequestering the shelter from the rest of the compound. One car sits stranded in the dirt and gravel parking lot. A group of good-looking, fit, young men, shirtless, due to the characteristic early autumn heat in Southern California, play basketball on a makeshift court across the street.

I arrived a half an hour before the staff leaves for the day. With no night shift hours at the shelter, it means the animals are alone, caged, at least 12 hours a day. I point this out not as an indictment of Camp Pendleton, but merely as an illustration. Homeless animals that make it to no-kill shelters are fortunate compared to those who don't. But it's still a pretty grim life.

JuJu and his BFF Hudson

The shelter was actually closed to the public on the day I visited. A few days earlier I'd spotted a flyer for the shelter with a photo of a dog that was described as a Lhasa Apso. I went online and read up on "Jun." According to his profile on Pet Finder, he was three years old, very friendly, but would need a home without cats. I wasn't yet ready to adopt a dog—I was going to wait until I moved back East to do so—but I kept thinking about that flyer, that adorable little face. I decided if "Jun" was, somehow, still available a month down the road, I'd take him, rename him "JuJu."

By the time I got off the phone with the marine volunteer who answered my call despite the fact the shelter was closed that day, I had an appointment an hour later to meet JuJu. I brought him back to my friend Mary Ann's, where I've been blessed to have spent the past two months. When I leave for Scranton, driving across the country just as winter descends on the Rockies, Midwest and Northeast, JuJu will be riding shotgun.

Poster Boy

My arrival in Scranton will signal the end of 10 months of travel: India, Bali, California. I didn't buy much except for necessities during these past 10 months. Now that JuJu has been in my life for a mere one month, I can firmly say that he fits that criteria. I don't know how I could possibly live without him.

5 Top Travel Writers' Tools

2011-11-04T22:53:00.000Z

In honor of National Blog Posting Month, or NaBloPoMo, I've signed up with BlogHer.com to receive a writing prompt daily. Today's prompt: When you're writing, do you prefer to use a pen or a computer? My answer: Neither.

I prefer to use my #1 all time best travel tool—the AlphaSmart Neo. Weighing less than two pounds, the Neo is a dedicated word processor that is virtually indestructible and runs—basically, forever—on three AA batteries. With a screen that displays six lines of text at a time, the Neo obliterates my two biggest time wasters and writing saboteurs: (1) diddling around on the Internet, planning year-long journeys I will not be taking any time soon; and (2) rereading my writing over and over and over to the point of paralysis. An ergonomic dream, the Neo connects to any computer via USB cables, which enable transferring files from the Neo to blogger or any text document. Brilliant!

#2 I don't leave home without a headlamp and neither should you. Headlamps are necessities for trekking trips, but I find that even my non-adventure travels require my trusty headlamp. No place on earth is as well-lit as the US. I use the headlamp to navigate dimly lit (or non-lit) streets and to read in bed.

#3 The AlphaSmart Neo's biggest selling point for me is also its biggest drawback—no Internet. So, although I need to avoid wasting time reading gossip about the "Real Desperate Housewives of Beverly Hills," I do need to check emails, keep up with my Facebook friends and Tweet. I need a device that gets me on the Internet, but doesn't make it so comfortable that I get sucked in. For this I recommend the iPod Touch, iPhone or iPad, all of which feature another travel necessity: Music!

#4 X-Mini speakers—When you're on the road long term, you need to be able to sing out loud. X-Mini speakers, which plug into your iPod, laptop or MP3 player, give you huge sound in a tiny package.

#5 Moleskin Notebooks—Made for travelers, these notebooks feature built in pockets for holding receipts, tickets, maps, and they come in a variety of sizes and colors. They were Ernest Hemingway's preferred notebook. If they're good enough for Hemingway...

5 Fantastic Places to Practice Yoga

2011-11-01T23:21:00.001Z

Goa Sunset

1. Rolf and Marci Naujokat, Anjuna, Goa, India. Rolf teaches Mysore Ashtanga and pranayama breathing exercises in the tradition of his teacher, Pattabhi Jois. Marci adds a different twist to the Ashtanga series, and is a godsend for yogis with injuries. The azure Goan coast, which lies on the Arabian Sea, offers beach lovers a chance to sun, surf and parasail. Goa is India's least Indian locale.

Ubud, Bali

2. Denise's Power Yoga Class, Yoga Barn Annex (above Kafe, Jalan Hanuman), Ubud, Bali, Indonesia. This class is, simply, a blast. Denise combines Ashtanga with Kundalini. She'll have you backbending, headstanding, balancing and laughing, while taking in snippets of yogic wisdom. Ubud, Bali's spiritual and cultural epicenter, is less than an hour's drive to Bali's famous beaches.

3. Ashtanga Yoga Center, Carlsbad, California. Like Rolf Najuokat, Ashtanga Yoga Center's founder, Tim Miller, began practicing with Pattabhi Jois as part of the first group of westerners to do so. Ashtanga Yoga Center offers traditional Mysore Ashtanga as well as a variety of led classes. Conveniently located in beautiful Southern California, the center is one of the top places to practice Ashtanga in the US.

4. Nicole Scavo-Powell, Prana Yoga, Scranton, Pennsylvania. Nicole is one of the most passionate Ashtanga yogis I've met. She travels all over the country to study with Pattabhi Jois' most senior certified instructors. She teaches led Primary and improvisation classes. Scranton, located about two hours west of New York City and two hours north of Philadelphia, is a former coal mining town experiencing a resurgence.

Mysore Palace

5. K. Pattabhi Jois Ashtanga Yoga Institute, Mysore, India. The mother ship for Ashtanga yogis. Thousands of westerners flock here yearly to practice with Guruji's daughter, Saraswathi, and grandson, Sharath. Mysore, located in the South Indian state, Karnataka, is a splendid city featuring temples, palaces, universities, gardens and amazing shopping.

Monday Travel Tip: A Guide to Travel Guides

2011-10-17T05:30:00.000+01:00

Lonely Planet, the most comprehensive guide book series, gives indispensable practical advice, and is especially useful in figuring out transportation within a country. It guided me in traveling around India's Himalayan towns—from Kalimpong to Darjeeling to Pelling to Gangtok and back to Darjeeling—by shared jeep. Without Lonely Planet I would not have known about the existence of shared jeeps, where travelers team up to drive the five-hour distances between remote mountain towns at the cost of 70 rupees—less than two dollars—per seat.

For meals, activities, trekking, sports, travel health, travel warnings and shopping, Lonely Planet rules. When it comes to accommodations, however, I find its recommendations reliably off-base. Hotels and guesthouses, perhaps by virtue of their appearing in the guide tend, to be overcrowded, or overpriced, or way too budget for my taste.

When looking for a place to stay I usually turn to the beautiful D.K. Eyewitness Guides, which simplify finding great hotels in every price range. In Gangtok, I stayed in the Chumbai Residency, which features marble floors, fantastic food and jaw-dropping views of Kanchenjunga, after reading about in it D.K., and learning that I could ask for a 50 percent off-season discount.

5 Fantastic College Basketball Towns

2011-10-15T02:32:00.000+01:00

With the NBA season on the brink of cancellation, I have to ask: Who cares?

Madison

Sure, it was fun watching the Mavs beat Miami's dream team last season. And it's always fascinating to see how many different ways to lose the Warriors and Clippers come up with, and how many different ways to win Greg Popovitch can wrest out of his superstar power forward, who's got to be pushing 50 by now. But even with these little delights, the NBA has become a complete snooze. Dubious officiating. An interminable post-season. Ticket prices that make live games inaccessible to most fans. With the constant squabbling over money, I've lost all interest in the professional version of my favorite sport.

Thank God for college basketball. Here are 5 places to catch a great game of college hoops:

Austin

1. Austin. I've never been there, but I've heard it described as paradise by people I like who've lived there. Amazing weather, thriving live music scene, culturally significant and filled with open-minded, progressive people. Despite being in Texas.

2. Bloomington. In hoops-crazed Indiana basketball fans rule. According to ESPN.com, "game day atmosphere is great everywhere—in town, on campus, in the arena." What better reason to travel to the middle of the country?

Bloomington

3. Lexington. If it's good enough for Ashley Judd, it's good enough for me.

4. Madison. Madison is cool by any standards—politics dominated by activists and liberals. It's also cosmopolitan, meaning you'll have plenty to fill your days in between the games.

Fairmount Park, Philadelphia

5. Philadelphia. Temple, Villanova, St. Joe's. I love Philadelphia; it doesn't take itself, or its critics, too seriously. Fairmount Park is the largest inner city park on the planet and possibly the most beautiful. With world-class art museums, restaurants, shopping and transportation, Philly is fun, exciting and easy to navigate.

5 Things To Do in India...

2011-10-14T20:00:00.000+01:00

Besides Yoga, Meditation and the Taj Mahal.

1. Ski. Don't act so surprised. India lays claim to the Indian Himalayas, which are very high mountains blessed with tons of powdery snow. Boasting the only first class ski resort in the Himalayas, Gulmarg, which lies in Kashmir and features the world's highest gondola, India attracts adventure sports enthusiasts from across the planet. You'll pay about five bucks a day for a ski pass and roughly the same for hostel-like accommodations. Factor in a good deal on airfare and you can ski or snowboard for a month in Gulmarg for under two grand.

2. Shop. It's worth the airfare for the goodies you'll score at one-fifth to one-tenth the price those same items sell for in the US and Europe. Jewelry, clothes, bags, rugs, art, furniture, textiles, traditional Indian musical instruments, spices, essential oils, skin care products and spiritual tchotchkes, outdoor markets, shopkeepers who insist you first share a chai before haggling over prices. Once you experience an Indian shopping extravaganza you will never enjoy paying Western prices again.

3. Paraglide. The hills of Solang Nulah, a few kilometers up the Himalayas from India's most popular adventure tourism town, Manali, are covered with expert pilots who will give you a tandem joy ride that lasts about 10 minutes for under $10.

4. Trek. The Himalayas are a natural choice—you can trek from Manali, Dharamsala, Shimla, Dalhousie, Kullu and zillions of other towns to sacred lakes and mountain peaks. Mountaineering institutes offer rock-climbing courses. From Darjeeling you can trek to the top of Tonglu (approx. 10,000 feet above sea level), where, on a clear day, you can catch a glimpse of Mt. Everest. In Sikkim, you'll need a special permit to trek. Down south, the Western Ghats offer bucolic respite from sweltering Southern India.

5. Volunteer. Tibetan Refuge centers in northern India, orphanages and animal shelters throughout the country. Volunteering is one of the best ways to connect with locals, other travelers, the culture, and give back to a destination.

Monday Travel Tip: Best Budget Airlines

2011-10-11T01:08:00.000+01:00

Shuffling through the first class cabin to reach my cheap coach seat usually depresses me. The sight of fully reclining chaises and oodles of leg room makes me envious and resentful. That is until I flew Delta from Detroit to San Francisco two weeks ago. The thrifty looking cramped first class was second-rate on my flight. Back in coach, for which I'd paid $160.50 for my seat from Scranton, PA to SFO (change in Detroit), I had a whole row to myself. Sweet.

While boarding a Southwest flight, I heard the flight attendants, as they tried to hustle passengers into seats, joke, "It's all first class today, folks." I love the egalitarian approach to discount flights embraced by Southwest and Jet Blue.

Qatar is best for international flights. The airline doesn't charge for luggage, carry-on bags or food. On my flight from Denpasar, Bali, to JFK two months ago the flight attendants made available for the entire flight a dolly full of snacks. This was on top of the three meals they served. Plus, everyone received a tiny swag bag with socks, earplugs, toothbrush and eye mask. Qatar flight attendants, a decidedly international assemblage, seem happy. They reminded me of a coed version of the PanAm (TV show) crew.

Two of India's carriers, Jet Airways and Kingfisher, give coach customers the royal treatment. Neither charge for bags and both serve excellent vegetarian fare. A big bonus: Jet Airways assigns reps to greet customers at baggage claim and usher us out of the airport. I can't decide if this is creepy or brilliant—but the reps always know our names without asking.

China Airlines' fares are reliably low, if you can book a seat—they tend to sell out months in advance. When I fly internationally I find that almost any non-US based carrier will be more comfortable than United and American. Continental sales on flights to India during late spring are unbeatable.

More reasons to love Southwest: 10 Ways to Get Kicked Off a Plane

There's No Place Like Home

2011-10-07T02:32:00.000+01:00

Lake Scranton Gazebo

Growing up in Scranton, Pennsylvania, I had one goal: to get out of Scranton, Pennsylvania. I did this the easy way. I went away to college, to Philly, where attending classes, studying diligently and attaining a Bachelors degree in a timely manner ran a distant second to my goal of not living in Scranton. I did eventually graduate and then I moved on—to Hoboken, then Brooklyn, then Manhattan, Encinitas in Southern California, San Francisco, Marin County, India, Bali and now back to Southern California.

After a life of dubious goals, which included travel, mastering certain tricks on the flying trapeze and more travel, I've whittled my goals back down to one: to move back to Scranton, Pennsylvania.

I own a pair of ruby slippers that were given to me by my friend CJ, who would kill me if she knew I mentioned her in a blog post. Luckily, she doesn't read my blog. She'd bought me a pair of Ferragamo ruby ballet flats back in 1982; I wore them until my chubby pinky toes pushed their way out of the dainty patent leather slippers. A couple of years ago, after visiting me in San Francisco, CJ sent me a pair of ruby shoes from Geox, which are even cuter than the original pair. Last week, I became obsessed with finding them in the morass that is my storage unit in Northern California. I finally gave up. I'm pretty sure those shoes only work in the movies.

Monday Travel Tip: Best Websites for Airfare

2011-10-03T07:02:00.002+01:00

Priceline? No. Too risky and I've never managed to grab really great airfare. Travelocity? No way. You can often find better fares on the airlines' own web sites. Two sites surpass all others when it comes to finding bargain airfare: kayak and momondo.com.

Momondo was a tip from Nomadic Matt, whose blogs and Twitter feeds I follow. I asked him to recommend the best site for last minute airfares. But Momondo is much more than an impulse buy site. Not only will it find you the best fares for the dates on which you want to travel, it will also show you daily airfares for an entire month. If you have flexibility in travel dates, you can come up with some real steals.

The advantage of Kayak is that you can book hotels, rental cars and much more, making Kayak a full service travel site for bargain hunting wanderers.

Monday Travel Tip: When You Fly, Know When to Buy

2011-09-26T07:00:00.000+01:00

Airfares can cost 40 percent less when purchased online....on Tuesdays and Wednesdays compared to the other days of the week, according to The Wall Street Journal. When airlines offer sales, the lower fares become available on Monday nights. By the next day, all the other airlines are scrambling to match the lower rates. Weekends are the worst time to purchase airline tickets online.

Tuesdays, just after midnight—the very best time to purchase airfare online.

Stay tuned for more tips, including the best online airfare consolidator, how to get the best price for rooms, best budget airlines, best travel sites, a guide to Lonely Planet, and more.

Endless Sanctuary

2011-09-23T00:09:00.000+01:00

In the Endless Mountains of Northeastern Pennsylvania, autumnal wildflowers dot the rolling blue-tinged evergreen slopes. A lone golden eagle soars across the cerulean sky, below it a family of deer strike their infamous caught-in-the-headlights pose before skittering off deeper into the woods. If you're an adventure sports enthusiast or simply an outdoorsy type, there's plenty on offer: whitewater rafting, horseback riding, skiing, hiking, sky-diving. For animal lovers, the Endless Mountains are home to one of the country's most beautiful all-species animal sanctuaries—Indraloka.

Indraloka Animal Sanctuary, in Mehoopany, Pennsylvania, rescues animals that are destined for the slaughterhouse, euthanasia or worse—a life of endless abuse. Indraloka residents include cows, calves, horses, pigs of all breeds and sizes, two dogs, dozens of cats and kittens, goats, lambs, sheep, chickens, roosters, ducks, turkeys and one peacock.

Duncan, the pig, and his new BFF

I don't know how animals' IQs are measured, but supposedly pigs are smarter than dogs. I find this fact disturbing. Here in the US eating a dog is unthinkable. Bacon, sausage, ribs, on the other hand, are some of our country's most popular foods. I wonder if this would change if everyone had the opportunity to hang out with live pigs. On the day I visited Indraloka, two of them, Duncan and Nugget, had commandeered the lambs' housing because they weren't happy with their own temporary shelter. A team of "green" architecture students from Marywood University—which boasts the country's only certified green architecture program— designed new digs for the pigs, but Hurricanes Irene and Lee put the kabosh on getting the new pad built quickly enough. All the huffing and puffing in the world was not going to get the Duncan and Nugget to move out of the lambs' comfy home. They weren't bullies, though. They were willing to share the space with the lambs, a group of visitors touring the sanctuary, a herd of turkeys. Pigs tend to be very easygoing creatures.

Indraloka founder Indra Lahiri

Indraloka founder Indra Lahiri, PhD, has taken on a monumental task. Simply feeding and cleaning the animals's housing would be a full time job for 10. Besides running the sanctuary, Indra, who holds a doctorate in organizational psychology, maintains a consultancy business. She is funding the sanctuary almost singlehandedly, proving that one person can make a difference in the lives of many.

Indraloka is Sanskrit for "God's heaven." I've visited animal sanctuaries all over the world and, usually, I walk away depressed. The horrors the animals have suffered are visible on their scarred, broken bodies, on their sad faces. Indraloka is different. The animals here look happy. After the hell they've been through to reach the sanctuary, it would appear they realize they've finally reached heaven.

I'm even cuter in person

I visited Indraloka one week after I finished reading The Horse Whisperer. I spend a lot of time with animals and I've long been accused of endowing them with qualities they don't possess. I've been vindicated, however. It turns out the mammalian brain is more similar across all species, including human beings, than it is different, according to the work of several Marin County, California psychiatrists, A General Theory of Love. Animals think, communicate, love, grieve. And when they are part of the food industry in the US, they suffer lives of constant torture.

In my experience most Americans are animal lovers. That the food industry is allowed to treat animals so inhumanely baffles me. Perhaps it just comes down to packaging. Animal products are packaged in a way that deliberately desensitizes consumers to the fact they are eating a sentient being who has as much right to life as they do.

Tinkerbelle, the Saint Bernard, in heaven

For more information, please visit Indraloka online. Click here.

Temple

2011-09-20T04:45:00.003+01:00

Philly Skyline

The Philadelphia of my college days is gone. Back then, a statue of William Penn perched atop of City Hall was, under mandate, the highest structure in the city. Now, clusters of pale blue buildings that blend into a cloudless sky tower above Penn. Wanamaker's department store, the first in Philly and one of the first in the country, is gone. Banks and law firms have changed names, so have the restaurants and hotels.

Two things remain the same, however. The Schuylkill Expressway is still a nightmare, regardless of time of day or day of the week. And my alma mater, Temple University, still can't beat Penn State in football.

When my college friends suggested meeting up at the Temple/Penn State game, I thought this year would be different. Temple has a good football team. In my hometown, Scranton, local TV specials touting Temple football air regularly. In 2009, we earned a post-season bowl berth against UCLA. I can't remember 2010 (it was a bad year for me), but I think Temple played well then too. This year, there was good reason to be hopeful that Temple could pull off the Penn State upset. And we almost did. If our quarterback(s) threw one less interception; if our offensive line had one less offsides call—who knows?

We are Temple!

Temple plays in the Philadelphia Eagles' stadium, Lincoln Financial Field, a ginormous arena that seats about eleven million. Last Saturday, every seat in the stadium was filled, sadly with Penn State fans. When the visiting team's fans far outnumber the home team fans, that's bad.

Almost doesn't count in football

It's easy to hate on Penn Staters. They run around in their uniform Nittany blue T-shirts that scream, "WE ARE PENN STATE." They show up in droves for every game regardless of location. They chant. They sing. They're so freaking happy, it's gross and unnatural. By comparison, we Temple people are a ragtag bunch. Our school color—cherry—is not quite red, not quite maroon. As a group, we're not the most cheerful. But we do have numbers. Temple, at least back in my day, was largely a commuter school, meaning millions of locals attended Temple. It's a shame they can't bother to show up for the football team.

Penn State's marching band out-marched Temple. Their cheerleaders out-cheered us. Their twirlers out-twirled us. Their flag bearers and stupid Nittany Lion mascot actually ran around our stadium, waving their school flag, shouting "We are Penn State." We don't even have flag bearers. They, in effect, evicted us from our own house.

And, worst of all, they created an uglier than usual traffic jam on the Schuylkill Expressway.

Next year, we'll probably play them in State College. You couldn't pay me to go to that game, even if God him/herself guaranteed a Temple win. You don't realize how big Pennsylvania is until you drive to Penn State's podunk campus that is at least 200 miles away from any form of normal civilization. Plus, being around all that Penn State cheer makes me depressed.

Traveling Abroad with Your Dog

2011-09-18T14:55:00.000+01:00

Jersey soaking up the Riviera sun

The French love dogs. At least that's what I decided after viewing the final episode of “Sex and the City,” where Carrie, sitting in a café, glances over at the diner seated next to her—an enormous bull mastiff. So, when the opportunity arose to spend two months on the Côte d’Azure with a side trip to Paris for work, I decided to bring my shih-tzu, Jersey, with me. We flew Continental—our favorite airline—to Paris, where we were scheduled to switch to Air France for the flight to Nice.

Jersey, at 17 pounds, was the perfect size for airline travel, at least in the US. As a frequent flyer, Jersey’s logged well over 100,000 miles on domestic flights. US airlines allow dogs and cats to fly in the cabin of the plane as long as they’re in carriers that fit under the seat. Air France, however, has a six kilo (13.2 pounds) restriction. Jersey, mon petit chien, was two tiny kilos over that lightweight limit.

But I had options. Jersey could fly in cargo (unthinkable, to me). Or, I could take a train from Paris directly to Antibes. Or, I could rent a car and drive there myself. Or, I could sob in frustration and anger and prey on the Air France personnel’s pity. I went with Option Four.

"Stop crying," the Air France rep snapped. "I mean it," she said. "You cannot cry."  I didn't realize crying wasn't allowed on Air France. Frankly, my experience with the airline led me to believe they'd be accustomed to dealing with tearful travelers. When my tears could not be assuaged, the Air France rep told me to go get lunch, and come back in an hour.

“I will take care of you and that little dog too,” she said, seemingly oblivious to the fact she was playing Wicked Witch to my Dorothy.

Despite a delayed arrival, once we touched terra firma in the South of France, the rest of the trip was très magnifique!

Fort Carre, Antibes, France

Traveling internationally with your dog is not only doable, but possibly ideal, especially for those who are planning extended travels to countries that do not require quarantine. The UK, Australia, New Zealand and other island nations generally have strict quarantine laws that make traveling with your pet unadvisable.

Some of the choicest destinations in the world, however, including most of continental Europe and Central and South Americas, Canada and India, extend all due hospitality to your dog. France (except for its eponymous airline) welcomed Jersey with more enthusiasm than it welcomed me. Jersey accompanied me to quaint cafés and five-star restaurants, where he was allowed to wander through the kitchen and dining areas. He browsed the boutiques on Place Vendôme and Rue St. Honoré. He enjoyed his own seat on Eurorail. Further, the French appreciated Jersey’s highly discerning personality so often mistaken for snobbishness in the US.

Jersey was not one to gush, but I could tell his trip to France was a highlight of his life. And let’s face it, regardless of destination, your dog would rather be with you than anywhere else in the world.

Jersey after a night on the town in Antibes

Traveling with your pet requires planning. When booking your flight, be sure to book your pet’s flight too. Most airlines limit the number of pets allowed in each cabin. If you book online, phone the airline after receiving your confirmation to add your pet to your ticket. Fees for flying a dog, either in the cabin or in cargo, vary from $50 to $150, each way.

Regardless of size, a licensed, certified service dog flies free in the cabin on US airlines. Foreign airlines, however, are not obligated to honor a US service dog’s hallowed status.

If you want your dog to fly in the cabin of the plane, confirm weight limits with every airline on which you’ll be flying. In my case, I wrongly assumed Air France operated under the same guidelines as Continental.

Make sure you give your dog the opportunity to relieve themselves during transcontinental flights. Just before deplaning, I put a doggie diaper on Jersey and quickly whisked him into the restroom to clean it up. During flights, I gave him ice cubes to lick and snuck him out of his Sherpa bag whenever possible.

International pet travel falls under the aegis of the US Department of Agriculture's Animal and Plant Health Inspection Services (APHIS), which requires your dog obtain an international health certificate from an APHIS-accredited veterinarian. This is a fairly simple process: Your dog gets a checkup for general health and to ensure that rabies, distemper and other vaccinations are current. Virtually every licensed vet in good standing in the country is APHIS-accredited. You can confirm your vet by contacting your local APHIS Veterinary Services Area Office. Click here.

Once the international health certificate is obtained from your vet, it must be endorsed by your local APHIS Veterinary Services Area Office.

Each country has its own rules for tourist dogs. The countries of the European Union, for example, require your dog be chipped with a European-compatible microchip. For a list of countries and their foreign pet requirements, click here.

In Antibes, Jersey and I stayed in a condominium; in Paris, a hotel. Finding dog-friendly accommodations, in my experience, is rarely a problem. Visit kayak.com to search for pet-hospitable hotels.

Make sure your dog always wears a tag that includes your email, foreign phone number and address abroad.

The benefits of traveling with your dog are enormous. You get to share your travels with your best friend, and enjoy peace of mind knowing your dog isn’t home missing you. You’ll spend a bit more money on airfare and, possibly, accommodations when traveling with a dog. But those costs are far less than I paid—$60 a day or more—for a dog-sitter.

There’s another benefit to traveling internationally with your dog: You’ll meet other dog owners, and dog owners tend to be the nicest, most interesting people in the world.

Nicole's Aubergine Dream

2011-09-16T03:39:00.004+01:00

Dip? Entree? Side dish? This yummy meal, courtesy of my Scranton Ashtanga yoga instructor, Nicole Scavo-Powell, is packed with protein and works for lunch or dinner, casual or elegant dining, appetizer or main course. You can turn it into a salad, a pita sandwich or even a burrito. It's to die for delicious and, of course, healthy.

Ingredients:

1 large eggplant

12 ounces lentils, cooked

1 clove (or 2, if you prefer), pressed or minced garlic

1 small onion, diced

1 cup bell peppers, chopped

1 cup zucchini, chopped

1 jalapeno, chopped

2 ounces olive oil

turmeric, cumin and red curry powder, to taste

Directions:

Pierce the eggplant and char-bake it at 400 degrees until soft and tender. Peel off all skin and mash or puree. Put to side. Pan saute garlic, onion, bell peppers and zucchini. Place in large bowl. Add eggplant, lentils and seasonings.

Servings: 2-ish

For dip: Puree all ingredients together.

For entree: Spoon over quinoa, brown rice or buckwheat.

Or use as filler for whole grain pita or burrito.

Traveling Yoga Pants

2011-09-11T03:27:00.002+01:00

Everyone swears by Lululemon, but I just can't bring myself to drop 98 bucks on a pair of yoga pants. Especially when I'm wearing those yoga pants in India in 100 degree heat, and then hand washing them in a bucket, and hanging them on a balcony where the humidity is so high, it takes two days for them to dry.

But since I believe my yoga practice is stronger and more fun when I'm wearing a cute outfit, I can't afford to go bargain basement with the yoga couture either.

My solution: Hardtail Forever. The clothes are smart, durable and fit great. Hardtail rollup yoga pants cost about 40 percent less than Lululemon. But here's the best feature of Hardtail: The entire line is always made in the U.S.A.

Yoga studios frequently carry Hardtail. So does Nordstrom.

The Power Lunch

2011-09-10T06:43:00.000+01:00

I've been preparing all of my own meals, virtually every single day, even while traveling, for the past two years. Every restaurant in Ubud, Bali, in fact, knew me as the goofy woman who brought her own food. I've whittled what started out as hours of preparation, cooking and portioning several times a week to throwing some yummy super-foods together in a few minutes a day.

The key timesaver, I discovered, is Beluga lentils. Vegetarian dishes are easier to prepare than non-vegetarian, and lentils are the easiest of all. Unlike beans, lentils don't need to be soaked prior to cooking. Simply rinse the lentils, add 2 parts water to 1 part lentils, simmer for about 15 minutes (until tender, but not mushy). Drain any excess water and season with turmeric, garlic powder, scallions and salt. Or whatever seasonings you prefer. I generally cook 2 cups of lentils at a time, which make about 5 meals.

Lentils are high in protein, but I like to eat foods that are super high in protein. Protein helps me stay sated longer. One of the best sources of protein I know is quinoa, a magical Peruvian grain that goes with everything. You can eat it for breakfast, lunch and/or dinner. High in calcium and fiber, quinoa is a complete protein with an amino acid profile comparable to non-vegetarian protein sources.

Preparing quinoa is a snap. Simply rinse it in a fine strainer, add 2 parts water to 1 part quinoa. Simmer for about 10 minutes until the grains look opaque, and drain excess water. You can add just about any seasoning or sauce you please, substituting quinoa for pasta and other processed grains. Aside from being packed with powerful nutrition, quinoa is gluten-free and readily available in all health food stores and many conventional supermarkets.

A meal needs to include vegetables—and lots of them—to qualify as healthy, in my mind. In the winter I roast butternut and acorn squashes, and make a small side salad. But during the warmer months, I stick with raw veggies. Since it's still warm where I am, here's my current favorite lunchtime meal:

Lentil Salad

6 oz. cooked Beluga lentils

4 oz. cooked quinoa

16 oz. raw veggies—spinach, broccoli, carrots, tomatoes, peppers, cauliflower, avocado, cucumber, etc.

2 Tablespoons olive oil

2 Tablespoons Balsamic or Apple Cider vinegar

Toss together and enjoy! Finish off with an apple, pear or peach.

Travel Reading: Slow Love

2011-09-08T13:18:00.000+01:00

Slow Love: How I Lost My Job, Put on My Pajamas, and Found Happiness, is former House & Garden editor Dominique Browning's beautifully written, despite its meandering, memoir that reminded me of a literary, middle-aged version of Sex and the City.

In Slow Love, the role of Mr. Big is played by a man Browning refers to as "Stroller." Stroller is clearly relationally challenged, so as I read the memoir of a smart, chic, funny, lovely writer, editor, mother, gardener, cancer survivor, I couldn't help but think: What the hell does she see in him?

Even though Browning eventually wound up in Rhode Island, happy, writing for A-list magazines, Slow Love bummed me out. Or rather, Browning's relationship with Stroller bummed me out. If a woman like Dominique Browning can't create a sound relationship with a sane, available, likable man, what hope have I?

The memoir starts out promising. Browning dishes on the Conde Nast(y) climate without name-dropping. Her humor and honesty throughout the book and her skill as a writer swept me along, kept me reading and got me thinking. Browning's story touches on universal themes of love, loss, parenting and the realities of the current economic crisis. And she makes a strong case for Brooks Brothers pajamas.

Join the Slow Love discussion on BlogHer.com: http://www.blogher.com/bookclub/now-reading-slow-love.

Packing for India: 10 Tips

2011-09-06T23:48:00.007+01:00

Photo Credit: Marika Andersson

The best packing tip I know: Once you’ve stuffed everything you think you need into your travel bag, remove a third of those items. Clothes you can buy everywhere. Ditto toiletries. But when exploring India there are a few essentials you won’t be able to find in the local provisions stores. As a traveler who has spent nearly a year backpacking throughout the subcontinent, here are my guidelines for making your journey more joyous:

Pack Light. Literally. Frequent power outages, unlit streets with cars, buses, trucks, motorcycles, scooters and auto-rickshaws, most of which, in a bizarre petrol-saving scheme, refuse to use headlights, necessitate carrying your own light. Opt for a headlamp so you can busy yourself reading during the hours-long daily blackouts in Northern India.
Oil of Oregano. A natural anti-bacterial, Oil of Oregano drops added to a glass of water can boost your immune and gastro-intestinal systems. Knock wood, I credit this tincture and avoidance of street foods (despite how scrumptious they smell) with staving off food poisoning during my stints in India.
Camp towels. Unless you’re staying in plush accommodations, towels are hard to come by in most Indian guesthouses.
Ear plugs. India is loud. Really, really loud. Most major highways are one lane in each direction. When passing or rounding a curve, drivers honk their horns as a head’s up to oncoming traffic. While the chaos can be unsettling, the blare of beeping is downright tortuous. Public buses often blast Hindi chants and Bollywood soundtracks through ancient, scratchy speakers at Manowar concert decibels. Also, Indians are loud. My theory is hearing loss from the clamor of industry and also the reality of one billion people trying to talk over each other.
Callus remover, foot file or pedicure kit. India is rough on the feet. In the sweltering south, sandals are de rigueur, and removing the dirt requires diligence. After scrubbing your feet, be sure to bathe them in Himalayan Herbals foot cream before bed.
Paper Products. While Indians love paperwork (you’ll be required to produce copies of your passport and visa to rent a room, buy a cell phone SIM card and register for yoga classes), they keep a tight grip on paper itself. Toilet paper is non-existent in restrooms and in most Indian households. Paper towels are non-existent, period. Napkins are a luxury.
Water purification system. You can buy bottled water, but the last thing India needs is tourists dumping more plastic. India has no sanitation system, no recycling, so all that plastic ends up littering the streets, rivers and mountains. Garbage disposal consists of locals burning their trash in their backyards or using it as fire fuel for cooking and heat. Shunning plastic is the best way to reduce your carbon footprint. I recommend the award-winning SteriPEN Adventurer Opti Water Purifier, available online at rei.com.
Waterproof jacket. In India, when it rains, it pours. Be prepared, especially if you’re traveling in the mountains or during monsoon season.
Patience. A one-hour drive can turn into an all-day event in India if, for example, the only bridge crossing the river you need to cross is blocked—as it was when I traveled from Rohtang Pass to Manali—by 25 Ski-Doos. Locals run on “India Time,” between 30 minutes and two hours later than your time. The checkout procedure in large stores involves three employees–one writes up the invoice, the second takes your money and the third hands you your goods. On the other hand, one person waits on 10 people, simultaneously, in small markets and pharmacies. In Cafe Coffee Day, India’s answer to Starbucks, four baristas serve each customer. It still takes 15 minutes to get your latte. Patience, in India, is not a virtue; it’s essential for survival.
Sense of Humor. Miscommunication can be comical and bargaining a sport as long as you remember to laugh. A sense of humor elevates dizzying, life-threatening jeep rides through the Himalayas into entertainment. Roads signs, rather than posting speed limits that no driver adheres to, offer advice: “If you drive like hell, you’ll soon be there.” Poverty, stray animals and ubiquitous garbage may be overwhelming. But the open-air markets rife with vividly colored clothes, flowers, pastes, textiles and tchotchkes, the aromatic herbs, oils, spices and foods, all of which are on offer by pushy touts eager to make a deal, transform browsing into a comedy routine. Traffic always includes cows as well as enormous saffron-colored semis decorated with images of demons, gods, lotus flowers and, on the bumper, an inscription, “Use horn, please.” Elephants bearing businessmen amble down tiny streets and major highways alongside the cars and cattle, which, let’s face it, is funny. When you laugh, all of India laughs with you.

Eat, Pray, Live

2011-08-31T17:54:00.000+01:00

Forgive me for referencing the Elizabeth Gilbert memoir that sparked a mass exodus to Bali's spiritual and cultural center, Ubud. "That damn book." That's how expats whose move to Ubud predates Gilbert's finding love there put it, though Gilbert is by no means single-handedly responsible for Ubud's transformation.

Just a few years ago, central Ubud laid claim to exactly one paved street. Today the entire town is navigable via motor vehicle. Ralph Lauren and Paul Smith boutiques squeeze between spas and local warungs. California cuisine, sushi, organic vegetables and supplement-packed smoothies are almost as plentiful as rice.

Rice, it turns out, is the chief victim of the westernization of Bali. As the expats move in and build their dream villas, they buy up the rice fields that are the backbone of Bali's economy, to do so. Who could blame them? For less than $2,000 a month, you could live in utter opulence in Bali: 4-bedroom manse with swimming pool, daily housekeeping, a personal chef and driver. And, if you have children, you can send your kids to one of two world-class schools near Ubud: Pelangi and the groundbreaking Green School.

This dream life comes with consequences, however: You can't eat a villa. And as the world's food and water supply continues to dwindle, this could pose a problem down the road.

But, for now, Bali is amazing and the living is easy. Yes, immigration tries to make things difficult, but anyone willing to play by the wacky rules will have no problem. Bali is, after all, paradise.

Charmed in Candidasa

2011-08-25T20:29:00.001+01:00

White Sand Beach near Candidasa, Bali

With her face tilted toward the azure waters of the Indian Ocean and the sacred lotus pond nestled between her temple and the sea, the goddess of fertility, Hariti, stands guard over the coastal village of Candidasa in Northeast Bali. For a thousand years, Balinese locals have paid homage to her rough-hewn image, praying for marital bliss, wealth and, of course, children.

That's one legend. According to another, much older tale, Hariti is no goddess at all. She's a demon, a cannibal, who fed her brood of beloved offspring by kidnapping, killing and serving up other women's children. Prayer was futile. As a daeva, she remained unswayed by pleas for mercy.

The contradicting stories of Candidasa's chief attraction (besides the sea) sums up the town itself. Serene Candidasa (pronounced "chandy dassa"), with its sacred location and beach pounded into extinction by the same sea that created Bali's famous beaches, tells two tales. On one hand, there's Candidasa, the ancient fishing village built on an aquamarine lagoon, as sleepy as a calm day at sea when the fish aren't biting. On the other hand is Candidasa, the resort town, its streets dotted with 5-star hotels and restaurants, Internet cafes and nail salons.

Although erosion has claimed most of the white sand for which Candidasa was once famous and the tourists are moving in to take its place, Candidasa remains one of the true gems of Bali.

I spent my first night in Candi at the Puri Bagus Resort, a rare moment of luxury during my seven months of travel through Southeast Asia. Each bungalow there is its own mini villa, one grand, well-appointed L-shaped room with separate sitting area and private veranda. I judge a place by its bathroom and Puri Bagus did not disappoint. The outdoor, cascading shower set in the same type of stone used in the 12th century to carve Hariti made me happy. For more conventional types, the bath also featured an indoor shower and tub. The best part of my stay, however, was falling asleep to the sound of the ocean right outside my huge picture window.

My last four nights in Candi were spent in humble, spartan accommodations. No hot water, no furniture other than a bed and small dressing table. Despite this, the facility offered amenities galore: small private beach, outdoor, ocean-front, stone-tiled yoga room, wonderful community of yogis and meditators, and the ever-soothing sound of the sea to lull me to sleep.

At the request of management, I can't divulge the name of my second location. They're choosy about who stays there and they'd prefer you find them yourself. If you can't do that, the gods don't want you there. And if the gods don't want you there, well, neither does management.

Dusk at my Secret location in Candidasa

For my next extended stay in Bali, I will make Candidasa (at my secret location) my home base. A mere 15 kilometers from White Sand Beach, which is perhaps Bali's most beautiful spot on the sea, my Candidasa digs will be the perfect place from which to venture out to other parts of the island. Ubud is about one hour away; the airport one and a half; Mt. Agung, Bali's highest elevation and most sacred mount, 45 minutes.

I don't mind the lack of beaches in Candidasa; in fact, I consider it a bonus. Less beach = fewer tourists. And the relative lack of tourists compared to the more popular towns of Seminyak, Sanur and Kuta boosts Candi's charm.

Bali's best beach: White Sand Beach

The Best of Ubud, Bali

2011-08-16T06:10:00.001+01:00

Ubud, Bali, is where Marin County and Berkeley, California, meet Indonesia. Strolling through Ubud, you'll pass organic cafes, raw food restaurants, yoga studios, boutiques, jewelry stores, spas, nail salons. Even Starbucks. The look, a town center that is busy, overcrowded and noisy, surrounded by beautiful scenery is very Berkeley. The people—Western, eco-friendly, spiritual hipsters and yoga princesses—pure Marin.

I've been living in Ubud for the past four months. My stay here was mostly accidental—when pre-monsoon India got too hot for me, I googled around Southeast Asia searching for a more comfortable clime. Bali was a no-brainer. And Ubud, the cultural and spiritual center of Bali, seemingly offered all the comforts of home.

Becoming part of the Western expat invasion was a mixed blessing. When my friend Mary Ann arrived here from San Diego for a 2 week visit, she commented, "You always put yourself right in the middle of the action, don't you?" Ubud seemed to her more Manhattan than shanti Bali. And while it's true I will do it differently if I return, I stand by my experience here. This is the place where I've met some of my favorite people in the world: Tarra from the S.F. Bay Area, Kimberly from New York City, Heidi and William from Oslo, Nyoman Sudana, my landlord in Ubud.

The Bali outside Ubud is spectacular—beaches, rolling hills where peace lilies and orchids bloom wildly, rice fields, ancient temples, sacred mounts and rivers, tiny towns where the delicate splendor of Balinese culture can be witnessed in its purity.

While I recommend a shorter stay than I had in Ubud, I do consider Ubud a must-stay. Here, in my humble opinion, is the best the town has to offer:

On the walk to Sari Organics

Best Healthy/Organic Restaurant

Sari Organics

Set amid the rice fields and Sari's own organic gardens, Sari Organics, which is about a 20 minute walk from Jalan Raya, is the one restaurant you cannot skip. The food here, superbly prepared, is the freshest available in Ubud (possibly all of Bali). Bonus: the service is excellent.

Runner Up

Juice Ja

I like this place. It's a great hangout, offers decent wi-fi and excellent vegetarian fare. I would eat here every day if not for the fact that the even the "large" salads are miniscule.

Juice Ja, not just for juicers

Best Health Food Store

Bali Buddha

Bali Buddha is the best for one reason: it's the only health food store. The service is abysmal; the staff could not be more apathetic and careless. But if you want organic lentils, tempeh, muesli, veggies and yummy-looking healthy treats (raw chocolate, homemade energy bars), gluten and sugar free pastries, this is the only place in town. Unfortunately.

Runner Up

Sari Organics

Sari sells its own rice and a few skin care products.

Best Hair Salon

Milano, next to the football field, off Monkey Forest Road

If you must get your hair cut or colored while in Ubud, Paris, who owns Milano, is your best bet. Several Westerners offer salon services on the sly. Immigration is cracking down on illegal businesses, so you'll have to ask around to find the Western stylists.

Runner Up

Nelly

From my own experience and what I've witnessed in one of the other Westerners who goes to her, Nelly tends to color hair too dark for Caucasian complexions, even when we're tanned. Still, she's who the Four Seasons calls when one of their guests needs a hair stylist.

Best Coffee

Starbucks, Jalan Raya

I don't care how cliche this is: If you want your coffee to turn out exactly the way you want it, go to Starbucks.

Choki and Momma Missy

Runner Up

Savannah Moon

The coffee and food here are excellent. And Savannah Moon offers an amenity no other place can match: Choki the shih-tzu will snuggle or ignore you, depending on your preference.

Best Yoga Class
Denise's Power Yoga (Yoga Barn's annex, above Kafe), Jalan Hanuman

This class is, simply, a blast. Denise is the real deal. One simple verbal cue—lift your arches—transformed my practice. Plus, she lets you try handstands and advanced postures regardless of your level. She'll have you backbending, headstanding, balancing and laughing, while taking in snippets of yogic wisdom.

Best Massage
Ida at Body & Soul, Jalan Raya
I had only one massage during my four months in Ubud, with Ida, but those who know far better than I do say she's the best in town. Given the level of self-indulgence most of my interview subjects achieved, I believe them.

Best Local Product
Skin De-Light
Skin De-Light is a moisturizer that combines the healing, anti-oxidant powers of olive oil with a flowery fragrance. It's all natural, organic luxury for your skin.

Best Homestay
Sandat Bali, Jalan Sugriwa
Set back from the road, Sandat Bali offers reprieve from noisy street sounds. Noisy family sounds are retained. Sandat Bali keeps it real while offering a slight respite from the din that is Ubud.

Best Local Restaurant that is not owned by an Australian, Canadian or American
Igelanca, Jalan Raya
Yummy salads, fantastic nasi campur, great atmosphere, central location.

Best Restaurant for Ambiance
Bridges, Jalan Raya Campuhan
Owned by a French Canadian, this is casual fine dining set just above the river. Food, service, atmosphere—Fantastique!

The Staff of Good Karma

Best Place to Give Back
BARC/Good Karma (animal rescue, sanctuary and clinic), Jalan Raya Pengosekan
Dogs are considered pests by most Balinese, the lowest mammals on the totem pole. One woman, Linda Buller, founder of BARC and Good Karma, is singlehandedly transforming the fate of Bali dogs. The rescue rounds up strays, neuters, spays and vaccinates them and, when possible, either adopts them out or re-releases them to their own 'hoods. This place will melt your heart.

Best Soulful Indulgence
Shivaloka, Jalan Hanuman
The malas sold here are simply divine. Expensive, but quite possibly worth it.

Best Flip-flops
Ubud Mart, Monkey Forest Road
Havaianas, the new line by Giselle Bunchen, about a dozen other options. If your Havaianas go missing after movie night at Yoga Barn, as mine did, Ubud Mart can hook you up with new ones.

Best Teas
Clear Cafe, Jalan Hanuman
The service here makes Bali Buddha seem sharp. 16 servers stand around giggling while you fetch your own flatware. Still King Caramel Tea is worth any suffering you go through to coerce the servers into bringing you one.

Best Day Spa
Tjampuhan Hotel, The Grotto
Luxury for less than $10. Jacuzzi, cold pool, beautiful outdoor swimming pool, sauna, steam room. Do not miss this.

Best Place for Good Reads
Pondok Pekak & Anak-Anak Library & Resource Center
This tiny library offered me every book I wanted and needed while in Ubud. I caught up on classics, indulged in chicklit, researched new destinations.

Best Shop for Handicrafts
Wayan's Shop, Jalan Raya Campuhan
Magical painted wood sculptures of Buddha, Ganesha and other spiritual images.

Good Karma

2011-08-09T17:17:00.002+01:00

Bali (Dog) Adoption & Rehabilitation Centre, founded by Linda Buller, offers care, compassion and a good home to hundreds of Balinese street dogs.

Putu, my driver, who is also my landlord's son-in-law, regales me with his tales of Balinese customs and rituals. Cats, he says, are revered here. If you run one over with your motorbike or car, you must stop, conduct a ceremony, end the cat's suffering and dispose of the body in a respectful manner. When he struck a dog once, on the other hand, his only concern was the damage it might have caused his scooter.

I know not all Balinese think as Putu does. Clearly he's relating his own perspective and his words incense me. From my many conversations with Putu I've discovered two key aspects of his personality: (1) he's very superstitious; and (2) he fancies himself a playboy.

After he tells me a story about buying dog meat in a local market, I begin spinning my own tales of American beliefs. Dog, I explain, is God spelled backwards. The dog, I insist, is God's favorite creature. I tell Putu in the U.S. we believe if you cause a dog suffering or see a dog in pain and fail to help, your penis will stop working. You will never, I emphasize, be able to have sex again.

Putu laughs nervously, glances from me to the road ahead of him, back and forth, several times, to see if I'm kidding. To add credibility to my story, I say the curse of the dog takes effect on your 29th birthday. Putu is 28.

"Poor Putu," I say, shaking my head, my voice tinged with pity. "Mistreating dogs...bad karma."

***

Good Karma is the name of the Vet Clinic run by Bali (Dog) Adoption & Rehabilitation Centre (BARC). If you spend any time in Ubud, you're bound to run across the Bali Dogs bumper stickers and T-shirts at least once. If you spend time in Ubud and you happen to love—or even like—dogs, you may want to consider donating time or money to Good Karma. You can also create good karma from afar. For a small monthly donation, you can sponsor a dog.

I spent the day today playing with puppies. I showed up at Good Karma ostensibly as the volunteer receptionist. It's not exactly a taxing job. Two families from Australia popped in to make donations. Their three beautiful children spent a good hour snuggling puppies, trying to convince their mothers there had to be a way to take some of them home with them.

A couple from the U.S. also came by to make a donation and buy T-shirts and postcards. Upon seeing what my job entails they decided to volunteer as well. "It's a good gig," I said. "But I'm not sure it qualifies as volunteer 'work.' It's more like volunteer play."

The two newest additions to Good Karma, young pups, perhaps five weeks old, were scared and feral and huddled together in a cage when I arrived at 9 a.m. By the time I left at 5, they were running around the clinic, allowing us to pet them gingerly for a few moments and roughhousing with the older puppies.

Lee, a small white pup, that would be wearing designer dog couture if he lived in the States was found tossed in a trash heap, his body in a rice bag which was tied tightly around his neck. He'd been the victim of an at-home castration and infection had spread throughout his entire body. He couldn't walk when he first arrived, but he was willing to eat. So despite the odds, the staff of Good Karma—Linda and Ebony—decided to treat him rather than euthanize. Today he toddled around the Good Karma clinic, snuggled up for belly rubs. That's how forgiving dogs are.

Today at Good Karma, two animals arrived for treatment. One, a cat, was brought in by a beautifully dressed Western woman who did not have an appointment. Her cat received immediate attention, treatment and was sent home with medicine. The bill for those services—25,000 rupiahs, which is about $3 U.S. When I suggested she might want to make a donation in addition to paying her bill, she huffed at me, and when I handed her the receipt for 25,000 rupiah, she threw it back at me. She was unwilling to kick in more than $3 for an emergency vet visit, treatment and medicine. In the States, she would have paid at least $100.

The second patient was a shih-tzu, a breed of dog that holds a special place in my heart. Her owner, a local Balinese man, had first brought the dog, Lucky, to a different clinic. But Lucky's cough had not improved. Unfortunately, the vet tech was not able to treat Lucky and since the vet was out sick, Lucky will have to return tomorrow.

I'll be returning to Good Karma tomorrow too. It's unbearable to hear the stories of how the dogs and puppies ended up in the clinic needing treatment. It's hard to see innocent animals, baby animals, suffering. But, I truly believe turning a blind eye is bad karma.

It can be difficult to muster sympathy for the adult Bali street dogs. They can seem menacing when walking the Ubud streets alone at night and several of them surround you, barking. I personally believe that most dogs want nothing more than to have their own human companion. For most of the dogs in Bali, that will never be an option.

Even when well-intentioned Westerners adopt the dogs, giving them great homes, there's often no happy ending for the Bali dog. Many Westerners inevitably end up returning to their own countries and leaving their well-cared for dogs behind to fend for themselves. Once a dog is domesticated it can't survive on the streets.

I think educating Balinese on the joys of dog companionship and how to treat a dog humanely might be the best way to solve the homeless dog problem.

A lot of Westerners see the street dogs wearing collars and assume those dogs have owners. But the colors are attached by BARC. After rounding up dogs for spaying and neutering, the dogs are given collars to distinguish them from the dogs who still need to be fixed.

Around the world, animals are suffering. In the U.S. the suffering is largely hidden, the atrocities of the food industry are rarely witnessed. In Bali, the suffering is right out in the open: roosters, kept in cages too small to turn around in, used for cockfighting, emaciated goats and cows tethered in the sun on short ropes, birds of all kinds imprisoned in tiny cages. If you can help even one animal suffer less, that, I believe, is good karma.

Good Karma Vet Clinic: Jl Pengosekan (just past the Arma), Ubud, Bali. http://www.freewebs.com/balidogs/

Going Indonesian

2011-08-06T17:19:00.018+01:00

Photo credit: CNN

After living in Indonesia for four months I've come to despise the Indonesian government. As an outsider, it's easy to see how the government here keeps its people extremely controllable: Deny them education and medical care and they will spend their entire lives in survival mode.

There's no such thing as public education here—parents must pay to send their kids to school. This means many Indonesians are under- or un-educated. Uneducated people are less likely to get jobs that pay enough to pull them out of survival mode.

This is particularly scary to me because I'm watching, from afar, the U.S. turn into Indonesia. Debt downgrade, debt ceiling, spending cuts—these are the top news items about the U.S. The federal government is trillions of dollars in debt and most states are billions of dollars in debt. We're broke. And many of us are in survival mode. Too beaten down to stand up.

I'm in debt. It sucks. It's scary. And I can tell you there is one reason only that I'm debt: I spent unwisely beyond my means.

Our governments—state, local and federal—can't continue to live beyond their means. It's not sustainable. Lawmakers are handcuffed, to some extent, about raising revenue. Who wants tax increases?

Inspired by the showing of "Yes Men Fix the World" at Ubud's Yoga Barn, I've decided to try my hand at fixing the U.S. Here are my suggestions:

National Sales Tax with no exemptions, no loop holes, no breaks, credits, deferments, no way around paying taxes on everything except food and medical care.
Eliminate income taxes completely. Eliminate the IRS. How much money does the federal government spend on paying IRS salaries? How much money does it pay to have its employees draft a 240,000 page tax code? Taxes are, of course, an industry: CPAs, tax lawyers, H&R Block—the need for all of these would be eliminated if I were allowed to fix the U.S. But a national sales tax in lieu of income tax would be the fairest way to tax people.* [caveat, see below]
Stop spending on all foreign matters. No more invading oil rich countries. No more financial aid to any country. I'm in debt; I can't afford to donate much money to charities, so I donate my time instead. It doesn't make sense for a country that is trillions of dollars in debt to the Rothschilds (European banking family who OWNS the Federal Reserve Banks of the United States of America. That's right, our Fed is run by a European trillionaire—terrifying) and China to give money away to anyone who is not a U.S. citizen.
Shore up the borders. Pull our troops out of every country other than U.S. and put them on the borders. Give them domestic jobs. They can fight the war on the drugs and the war on poverty and the war on child abuse instead.
Enact policy that the U.S. is not allowed to wage any kind of weapons-related activity on any country unless there is a direct threat of attack from that country.
Take all the money we save from invading other countries or helping them out or supporting their noble rebel efforts and develop solar energy. Florida, Arizona, California, Nevada, these are states that get, like, 361 days of sun a year. Why aren't they completely solar-powered by now? Because the oil companies will not allow it. It's hard to make a profit on sunshine.
*Require the foreign workers of all outsourced jobs by American companies to pay income tax to the U.S. That's right—if Apple and United Airlines and AT&T are going to outsource their jobs to India and the Philippines, those employees should be paying taxes to the U.S.
Model our national policies on a country like Switzerland, which is prosperous and sane, rather than on a country like Indonesia, which is completely fucked up.
Give every child in the U.S. a free, high quality education, including college. The last thing any country needs is a bunch of poorly educated people running around with their Constitutional right to bear arms. We've already proven that does not work.

I have other ideas too. But this would be a good start, in my humble opinion.

Good Times on Gili Air

2011-08-06T15:00:00.002+01:00

Gili Air, a tiny coral reef island off the coast of Bali known for its turquoise waters, deserted beaches and serene atmosphere, is Bali's version of Fire Island. Horse-drawn carts and bicycles are the only vehicles touring the sandy paths throughout the island. A night on the town consists of watching the sun set. You can pack everything you need for your trip—bikini, sunscreen and a novel—in an REI daypack. After four days there, I decided "gili" is Indonesian for relaxed.

I'd been warned: Traveling from Ubud to Gili is no day at the beach. The super fast speedboat that makes the trip in less than 2 hours is bearable only when accompanied by a handful of Dramamine. Since I'm of the opinion if you've seen one beach, you've pretty much seen them all, I dismissed any curiosity I had about Gili based on that information alone.

But my friend Mary Ann, who'd journeyed from San Diego to spend 2 weeks with me in Bali because I'd begged her to, had targeted Gili as one of her must-sees. I argued with her—there's tons of beaches right here on Bali, a beach is a beach... Mary Ann held firm and gently reminded me she'd traveled something like 20,000 miles for a vacation from her 80-hour work week job, plus the entire trip to Gili was on her. She half cajoled, half bribed me into acquiescence. Thank God.

Our first encounter on Gili set the tone for our stay. When we arrived at our guesthouse, Manta Dive, one of the employees, upon seeing us but before we even introduced ourselves, held out his arms, smiled warmly and exclaimed, "Lynn! Welcome. Here is your room key."

"Would you like our credit card?" Mary Ann asked, taking the key and tentatively allowing the young man to embrace her.

"Oh, no," he said, shaking his head, dismissing the idea as if it were silly. "I will help you with your bags."

Mary Ann is still wondering how he knew who we were.

Getting Manta Dive to take our (Mary Ann's) payment was our biggest challenge on Gili. The night before we left, knowing we had to catch the boat early in the morning, Mary Ann popped into the office. "I really think we should pay you now," she said. The young man shrugged, smiled broadly and said, "I hope you will come back soon. We really liked having you here."

And we loved being there. Manta Dive is located at the end of Gili's tiny restaurant row. As the name implies, it offers scuba instruction and dives. The center features an enormous front patio with tables, a swimming pool and two types of accommodations—rustic bungalows with outdoor bathrooms and modern, more luxurious hotel-like rooms. Both are wonderful.

Lined up within 200 meters of Manta Dive are a selection of restaurants. Scallywags, which offers an organic salad bar, and Chill-Out Bar, which fronts the best swimming beach on the east side of the island, were our favorites.

In between breakfast, lunch and dinner, Mary Ann and I spent a lot of time doing nothing. We napped on the beach, rented bikes and rode all over the island, often, at low tide, right on the beach. We didn't go snorkeling (just seemed like too much work) but we heard it's divine.

As we biked around the island, we pit-stopped at various homestays that offered cold bottled water. At each one, we were encouraged to grab a lounge chair, enjoy the beach, stay for awhile. Balinese people are, as a rule, very sweet. But in Gili Air the sweetness of their hospitality soared to new heights.

Aside from its Caribbean-like beaches, Gili's scenery includes fantastic views of the mountains of Lombok, which we've been told is the next Bali. If I ever travel back to this part of the world, I will head straight to Lombok. It's much closer to Gili Air.

Home Sweet Homestay

2011-07-31T13:15:00.002+01:00

Best kept secret in Ubud, Bali: Sandat Bali, a homestay that offers a glimpse into the lives of Balinese families, their spiritual rituals and their legendary healers.

"Lynnie!" Nyoman, who is dressed in a sarong, bellows when he spies me walking into his family's compound. He rises from the covered platform on which he serves guests cups of kopi, cookies or fruit and grasps my hand, massaging it. I feel the tension that is my usual status quo drain from my head and chest. I smile.

"You always happy, always smiling," Nyoman tells me. This is not nearly true, but I'm delighted he sees me this way.

Nyoman Sudana and his wife, Wayan, run Sandat Bali, a homestay in the center of bustling Ubud. Nyoman, who teaches painting and drawing to college students in Denpasar, is also a renowned Balinese healer. His speciality is reflexology. Nyoman is the healer locals see when they need healing.

Before moving into the second story guest room, which is spacious and newly constructed and features a kitchen to die for, I'd visited Nyoman for reflexology. I was expecting something along the lines of a super foot massage. What I received was Nyoman intensely manipulating my feet with his hands, a smooth, thick stick, various oils. It was painful. But my chronic stomach discomfort eased. So I came back for a second session. And then I moved in.

Sandat Bali is the seventh place I've stayed during my 3.5 months in Ubud; it is far and away my favorite. Despite its proximity to a neighborhood temple, Ubud's three main streets (Jalan Jaya, Jalan Hanuman and Monkey Forest Road), Sandat Bali offers a bit of respite from the din that is Ubud. Set far back from the street, Sandat Bali's sole noisiness comes from the Sundana family. Literally dozens of them live next to each other in a neat row of bungalows below my balcony.

I feel like a part of the family here. Nyoman and Wayan, who are most likely younger than I am, are like my parents. "Where you going?" they call out as I leave for yoga or to meet a friend. "Busy, busy," they say, clucking their tongues in mock disapproval.

I hesitated writing this post. I want to keep Sandat Bali for myself, my secret, my room on the second floor with the granite countered kitchen and brand new refrigerator always available for me. But I also want Nyoman and Wayan to prosper. My gratitude to them for a lovely living situation won out over my self-centeredness.

If you go: Sandat Bali Homestay, Jalan Sugriwa, #21, Ubud, Bali. Ask for the second floor room—150,000 rupiahs per night. Room is well appointed with new bathroom and fixtures, comfortable bed, beautiful linens, large balcony. Fantastic double kitchen next to room is shared with another unit on the second floor. Best homestay in Ubud, hands down. Tell them Lynnie sent you.

Teaching Enlightenment

2011-07-23T11:17:00.003+01:00

"One percent of the population meditates; the other 99 percent benefits."
—Sri. M.A. Narasimhan, Yoga Sutras Scholar, Anantha Research Foundation, Mysore, India

Professor Narasimhan, one of the world's foremost scholars on Indian culture and Ancient Indian sciences, doesn't put on airs. He shows up to teach his class on the Yoga Sutras and Vedic philosophy looking as if his group of eager yoga students just woke him up from a nap. He rubs his eyes wearily as he takes his seat on the slightly raised platform in his office. Both his white T-shirt and hair are rumpled. He looks like he could, quite literally, teach this class in his sleep.

But once he begins fielding questions from students he comes alive, his deep brown eyes shine, his voice takes on the quality of a man who knows what he is talking about.

Narasimhan and his sister Jayashree founded the Anantha Research Foundation in Mysore to teach the non-asana (that is, non-physical) aspects of yoga. It is the place to go if you want to learn to Sanskrit or how to chant the Yoga Sutras or meditation or the teachings of the ancient sacred Hindu texts.

In Mysore, Narasimhan and Jayashree are famous. And not just among the thousands of yoga students who flock there from all over the world to practice in the epicenter of Ashtanga yoga. You can pretty much walk up to any rickshaw driver on any corner in Mysore and say, "Jayashree's," and they will know exactly where to take you.

Narasimhan draws serious students of yoga, seekers who are largely already in possession of solid yogic philosophy. Their questions, lofty, usually include lots of Sanskrit words. My first question to Narasimhan was a tad more basic. "I'm worried," I said, "because I've been told there's no such thing as converting to Hinduism. You have to be born Hindu."

Narasimhan rubbed his face, tugged slightly on his chin, which was covered in five o'clock shadow (it was, in fact, 5:00) and said, "Do you want to be a legal Hindu or a practicing Hindu?"

"Practicing!" I said.

"Okay, then. You're a Hindu."

Those words made me happy because he also said I can be both a Hindu and a Catholic. Hinduism, unlike the modern religions, is inclusive.

Studying with Narasimhan and chanting with Jayashree was the highlight of my time in Mysore. Here are some of the many nuggets of wisdom I took away with me:

"Any law based on punishment will be broken."

"We always define ourselves with respect to others. We are a son or a daughter or a husband... Through yoga we can reach the state of Samadhi, where we come to ourselves. When we reach that state of equanimity we become one with the Divine."

"When you experience the Divine, you should be able to see it in all people."

"The works and words of all great thinkers, scientists, inventors, artists are the result of an explosion of an inner experience. Einstein had that experience when he realized the interaction between space and time; Newton had that experience when recognized gravity."

"When you touch the Divinity through anything, your message will be remembered."

"When you stop your energy from going outside yourself, you will know yourself."

"The state of equanimity and contentment is the state of God."

"You must purify the senses to see God."

"Theology justifies the rituals of religion. Theology + Ritual = Religion.

"When you don't know what's good for you and you select what's bad, you suffer."

"Yoga removes all impediments and makes you aware of yourself and your environment."

"The more in tune you are with your environment, the more happiness you experience."

"Through the practice of yoga you become flexible and start adjusting to situations without frustration."

"In the Indian system, all souls reach God because it is a certainty. God allows freedom to run away because He knows you'll come back."

Amazing Friends

2011-07-21T17:38:00.003+01:00

One week before I left for my year of traveling in Southeast Asia, I asked my closest friends to join me at Crissy Field in San Francisco to say goodbye to the three loves of my life: Jersey, Gus and Mittens.

Photo Credit: Jane Richey, Jane Richey Photography

My cat Mittens died on February 6, 1996. Exactly 15 years later, I scattered her ashes and the ashes of Jersey and Gus. Mittens was my first great loss in life. When I realized she was terminally ill, I became obsessed with getting a puppy. My friends and therapist admonished me at the time, telling me it was a horrible thing to do to my beloved cat.

So many aspects of grief are universal and yet the grieving process is a highly individual journey. I went ahead and bought the puppy anyway.

Jersey came from a litter of three shih-tzus who were named Jerry, George and Kramer (Seinfeld Show) by Pat Leone, shih-tzu breeder extraordinaire. Pat screened me over the phone to make sure I was good enough for one of her dogs. I told her I would name my dog Jersey, so she began calling him Jersey even before I arrived to take him home to our loft in Manhattan.

Contrary to my therapist and friends' admonishments, Jersey did not stress Mittens out more. In fact, she loved him. She was protective of him. During his crate training days she slept on top of his crate. The day I brought him home from the hospital after having him neutered, he was wearing one of those Elizabethan collars to prevent him from licking his stitches. I swear to God, she gave me the filthiest look that seemed to say, "What the hell are you doing to this poor puppy."

At the end of Mittens' life, I fed her (and Jersey) filet mignon. On a bitter cold February morning my friend Ron road the train with me from Manhattan to some place in upstate New York where the pet crematorium was located. Because I was paranoid and a bit nuts with grief, on my request, he watched over Mittens' cremation to make sure the ashes I would receive were, in fact, hers. The first time I took Jersey for a walk after she died, he ran back into the apartment and looked all around for her, crying. I'm crying now just thinking of it.

My collie dog Gus was a gift from an ex-boyfriend. He dumped me and he dumped his dog on me. My therapist (the same one) called Gus my guru because I learned many lessons about love, acceptance and commitment from my relationship with Gus.

I lost Gus on April 6, 2007. Both Jersey and I slid into dark depressions. I needed Zoloft to cope; he needed a therapist.

Jersey was diagnosed with kidney failure about two weeks after Gus died. I was told that it was likely I would lose Jersey too. That night, one of the worst of my life, my dear friend Delfina came over to my apartment where I was lying on the floor in a fetal position, clutching Jersey, sobbing. She brought me soup. She sat with me and we prayed for Jersey together.

An extraordinary team consisting of an internist, Craig Maretzki, DVM, and acupuncturist/Chinese doctor Ella Woods from San Francisco Veterinary Specialists treated Jersey the way I would hope to be treated by doctors if I ever became seriously ill. And then there was Heather King Singh—a gifted family/marriage therapist who happens to specialize in companion animals. She worked with Jersey and was able to help him and I "negotiate" measures he would need to take to help his team save his life. For example, he agreed to eat again if I promised to take him to see ponies. I swear to God.

[I'll write more about Jersey's therapy in another post.]

Team Jersey helped Jersey and I share three and half more years together.

My friend Shannon came with me to SF Vet Specialists the day I had to euthanize Jersey. I had prayed and prayed that he would die naturally; that I would not have to make the decision. His doctors strongly recommended euthanasia. His death was inevitable; he would have suffered. One of my biggest concerns about not euthanizing was the possibility he would die alone, while I was at work. I could not bear to think of my baby dying all alone without his mom there telling him how much she loves him.

My friend Charlane came with me to SF Vet Specialists to pick up Jersey's ashes. We went out for coffee afterwards; she carried the ashes, refusing to let me leave them in my car or carry them myself for fear that, in the state I was in, I would lose them. I am so grateful for my friends for carrying me through those difficult times in dealing with the mundane, yet heart-wrenching, details of death.

I was blessed to have Mittens, Gus and Jersey. It's a huge design flaw, in my humble opinion, that cats and dogs live such short lives. My grief, while no longer crippling, is still palpable, always present.

Someone once asked the Dalai Lama: If a man and dog were both drowning and you could save only one, which would you save. The Dalai Lama replied, and I'm paraphrasing here, that if the man were a miserable person who brought suffering and the dog was a good dog who brought happiness, he would save the dog.

This is why I love the Dalai Lama.

Close Encounter with a Head of State

2011-07-20T13:01:00.005+01:00

Walking home from a showing of "Zeitgeist, The Addendum" at the Yoga Barn on Monday night, my friend Tarra and I popped into an Indonesian version of a 7/11. Standing in full military regalia—a khaki green wool uniform with gold buttons and red medals topped off with a blue beret—was a young man who resembled the Indonesian version of a West Point cadet.

When we emerged from the 7/11 we encountered a whole platoon of fancily-clad military guys. Cops were everywhere. Barricades prevented traffic from moving in the direction of central Ubud. Small throngs of people, two or three deep, lined the tiny brick sidewalks. A cavalcade of dark sedans slowly made its way down Jalan Hanuman. From the open window in the back of one car, an elegant woman smiled and waved.

It turns out Tarra and I were standing a mere 10 feet away from the First Lady of Indonesia. The First Lady of Indonesia smiled and waved at us! Moments earlier her husband, President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, had asked a group of Aussies who were clutching open beers in one hand and lit cigarettes in the other where they were from and if they were enjoying Bali.

***

Today, when I tried to extend my Indonesian visa yet again, I had a momentary panic, the details of which I'll spare you. But it did get me thinking. Pretty much the entire economy in Bali is dependent on tourists. Clearly they need us here. The only imaginable explanation for why the Indonesian government makes it so difficult to extend visas beyond 30 days is that they have a kick-back deal going with the airlines.

Indonesian tourists purchase a 30-day visa on arrival upon entering the country. That visa is renewable for an additional 30 days and an additional fee. After that, if you want to stay longer (legally), you must exit the country, get your passport stamped by another country and then reenter. There are other legal methods for obtaining visas for longer periods of time, but they entail forethought and planning. And I had no idea I was traveling to Indonesia until 2 weeks before I got here.

One possible way the Indonesian government could make more money from the visa situation without forcing tourists to leave and reenter: raise the cost of the visa and simultaneously increase the visa length to six months. I can't possibly be the first person to think of this...

Bali's Changing Weather

2011-07-18T11:45:00.004+01:00

As the sky over Ubud grows ominous, threatening rain like yesterday's which reminded me of a monsoon, I search futilely for the umbrella that my lovely landlady Wayan lent me. It's nowhere to be found, and I realize I've lost three umbrellas in less than three months in Ubud.

I think back to all the umbrellas I've lost. The $200 Christian Dior umbrella I bought in Paris in 1986. Dozens, if not hundreds, of $3 street vendor umbrellas from Manhattan. Totes, the umbrella from the Museum of Modern Art embellished with silkscreened clouds on the inside. The Tin-Tin umbrella I picked up in that overpriced French place on Sutter Street in San Francisco. And many more nameless umbrellas. All gone. If I had $1 for every umbrella I've lost over my lifetime, I would be able to retire right now, buy myself a nice little house in Scranton. Spend my time horseback riding and learning the metric system.

Sometimes I lose more important things than umbrellas. Facts, for example.

After my previous post, "Paradise's Underbelly," several Facebook Bali Community members pointed out that I did not have my facts straight. The Balinese (or perhaps Indonesian) law which stipulated that in the case of divorce men retain sole custody of children has been changed.

I may not be the only one on the island unaware of that fact. According to several Bali Community members, getting the word out to some Balinese villages takes time.

I stand corrected. Balinese men do not retain sole custody of their children upon divorce. I googled "Governor Pastika" (Bali's governor), "divorce" and "child custody laws" and was unable to determine when this change was made.

I really wish I had a way to reach the Balinese woman from a village outside of Ubud who divorced her husband because (a) he was beating her; and (b) he was having an affair. She left Bali to work in Sri Lanka, returning every three months to visit with her now 5-year-old daughter Yasmin. I really don't think she knows about this new-ish law.

Paradise's Underbelly

2011-07-17T03:26:00.004+01:00

Photo Credit: BBC

Balinese babies are often held hostage when their families can't afford to pay the clinic or midwife that delivered them. There is no universal health care in Bali. When a couple divorces, all custody rights revert solely to the man.

It's not easy being a woman in Indonesia:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-south-asia-14021340

Travel Tip: Stay Before You Pay

2011-07-16T08:21:00.000+01:00

Never pre-pay a room for more than one night. Never.

Ignore this tip at your own risk.

I should know better. When I arrived in Ubud I hired the driver who picked me up at the airport to take me around town and help me find affordable accommodations. After showing me several places, I chose the least dingy of the homestay options and paid a month upfront. My room shared a wall with the neighborhood temple/recreation center, something I didn't notice before plunking down my 1.5 million rupiahs. After two days of clamorous Gamelan music and the echoing thwaps of badminton accompanied by the screams of badminton players, I begged the owner for refund. Instead, she offered me another room.

It turns out the taxi drivers here get a 15% commission on the rooms they convince stupid, unsuspecting travelers like me to accept.

Long before my month was up, I began researching better options for my second month in Ubud. This time, determined to bypass the taxi drivers and their financial stake in my choice, I turned to the trusty Internet. Hutama Yoga Rooms, which was featured on the Bali Spirit web site and also recommended by a friend, sounded like an answer to my prayers. "For yogis and quiet travelers," the web site assured; Hutama even enforces "quiet hours" between 8 p.m. and 6 a.m. I eagerly booked and prepaid my room for 6 weeks.

Unfortunately, Hutama was unable to get the abutting family compound to buy in to its "quiet hours." Hutama makes my loft on the corner of 23rd & 2nd in Manhattan, the noisy apartment that actually drove me out of Manhattan, seem like a sanctuary.

Of course, I have only myself to blame. I assumed since Hutama was run by Americans it would measure up to American standards. It's also relatively pricey for a homestay, which led me to another erroneous assumption—if it costs a lot, it's got to be good, right?

Not only is Hutama situated within the Noise Epicenter of the Entire Universe, it's falling apart. My kitchen and bathroom sinks are eternally clogged. The water pressure in my shower is a trickle. There's no hot water.

It does, however, provide free filtered drinking water. Maybe I should shower with that?

I've learned my lesson. No matter how fantastic a place sounds or looks at first glance or over the Internet, pay for one or two nights to make an intelligent decision if the place will work out for me.

Because the thing is: Any place that requires prepayment is a place that no one would stay in for more than one night.

Sounds of Galungan

2011-07-14T11:01:00.001+01:00

I had a request for some audio to illustrate the noise—I mean, sounds—of Galungan available to me right outside my window/door, every day, from about 7 a.m. until after midnight. Enjoy!

Bali: Morning Ritual

2011-07-14T04:37:00.000+01:00

Galungan Extravaganza

2011-07-12T10:44:00.001+01:00

Good news: Evil has been defeated. At least for the next 6 months here in Bali.

Clearly something momentous was brewing. Gigantic curved bamboo poles decorated with palm and coconut leaves, rice, cakes, ribbons and flowers began to spring up in front of every family compound throughout Ubud. Local markets began running out of certain staples--tempeh, bananas, every form of vegetable. The bands of young men congregating on corners grew even louder. Young children stayed up well past any reasonable bedtime for a child. Finally, music--barong, which involves the rhythmic pounding of drums and pinging of tinny bells at unbearable decibels--filtered through earplugs and headphones becoming inescapable at any time of day or night.

Galungan had begun.

Celebrated for 10 long, loud days, Galungan commemorates the victory of Good over Evil. It's like a cross between Christmas, Hanukkah, Easter and Halloween. On the first day of Galungan, Bali's deceased return to earth, taking up residence in their old family compounds. On the 10th day, they are shooed back to their celestial habitats.

Kadek, a young college girl who works at the Ubud Public Library, gave me the skinny on Galungan. She told me the reason barong music is played so loudly is to drive away the evil spirits.

It's working: I am so ready to leave.

Sanctuary of Love

2011-07-10T15:00:00.000+01:00

An all-species animal shelter in Northeastern Pennsylvania offers refuge, comfort, care and love to more than 100 abandoned, neglected and abused animals, thanks to the tireless work of one woman: Indra Lahiri.

Indra Lahiri looks like her image should be gracing the cover of magazines. She looks as if the hardest thing she would have to do in a day is show up at a Power Yoga class or maybe wash her own car. She holds a Ph.D., and therefore, could be enjoying a relatively cushy job teaching in a nice ivy-covered university building. But that's not her path. Indra has chosen to save the lives of animals that would otherwise be slaughtered, euthanized or simply forgotten. Indra Lahiri is the founder of Indraloka Animal Sanctuary in Mehoopany, Pennsylvania.

Running an animal sanctuary that is home to 63 cats, 15 chickens, 11 pigs, 8 horses, 3 dogs, 3 goats, 3 cows, 1 peacock, 5 turkeys, 2 ducks and 5 sheep is not a glamorous job. It involves a lot of shoveling shit. So, understandably, Indra is often asked why she does it:

"Because each time I connect with a hurt chicken, a once-helpless lamb, a rescued veal calf, an elderly horse that was dumped after years of service to humans, and all of the rest of them, I experience God. I learn about the true nature of beauty, and I become a better person. Because I can’t help it. Taking home creatures in need and showering them with love is like breathing for me. It just happens, and it keeps ME alive. If I placed all the animals of Indraloka in new homes today, I’d have the place filled up again by tomorrow. This is my joyous, maddening compulsion. This is my blessing and my calling. This is my religion. This is my bliss."

Johnny Braz, who happens to be my cousin and also, more significantly, a filmmaker, recently released his documentary about the sanctuary: "Peace, Love & Animals."

Indraloka, with the help of adolescent psychology professionals, plans to expand into child welfare by offering abused and traumatized children the opportunity to work with the animals in a therapeutic environment.

For more information, please click here to read Indra's blog or visit Indraloka's web site.

Thank You

2011-07-08T13:31:00.001+01:00

When a friend and I trekked in the Indian Himalayas a few years ago, the two words we most frequently uttered were thank you. Thank you for pitching our tent, thank you for cooking us breakfast, lunch and dinner. Thank you for helping us navigate the very thin log crossing a very wide, raging river (the Beas). Thank you for serving us morning coffee in our tent. Thank you for waking us up on a starry morning early enough to watch the sun rise above one of the highest mountain peaks in the world. And, in my case, thank you for carrying my backpack up and down a much less impressive mountain peak and lending me your down jacket because I was too stupid to pack appropriately for a high altitude trek. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

After about 3 days of our incessant thank yous, our guide Anand, in response, snapped, "The least you could do is learn how to say thank you in Hindi--Danyavaad."

It took us another 3 days to pronounce danyavaad correctly: don' yia vahd.

I've been in Bali for 2-1/2 months and it finally occurred to me I need to be saying thank you in Balinese: matu suksama. Those two simple words have transformed just about every exchange I now have. Even if I'm butchering the pronunciation, the locals don't mind. They seem genuinely appreciative of the attempt.

That got me thinking: I can travel just about anywhere in the world as long as I know how to say thank you in the local language.

During my second trip to the Indian Himalayas, as I was checking out of the Holiday Inn in Manali, I thanked the hotel clerks in Hindi, which made them giggle (they spoke and understood English perfectly). So I continued thanking them in Urdu (shukriya), French (merci), Italian (grazi), Spanish (gracias), Portuguese (obrigada), German (danke), Japanese (arigato), Mandarin (xie xie) and Thai (kha).

"You speak many languages," one hotel clerk said, clearly impressed.

"Nope, just English," I replied. "Thanks is the only word I know in any other language."

"Ah," he nodded. "But it is the only word you need to know."

Click here for a list of how to say thank you in over 400 languages.

Open Letter to U.S. Sportswriters

2011-07-04T13:50:00.001+01:00

It's July, the heart of the baseball season, and yet the press continues to relentlessly focus on the oh-so-yesterday NBA season, specifically LeBron James and his arrogance.

Here’s a thought: The NBA Finals ended a month ago, James’ team lost, and still LeBron James is the top sports story every day. Most of what’s written about him is trivial. James dunks on a kid! James tells fans/haters, in so many words, to get a life! James nicknamed himself the king while still in high school!

So what?

So what if he’s arrogant? So what if he called a press conference to announce his “decision?” So what if he’s a bad sport? So what if he’s balding, disappears in the 4th quarter and jacks up 3s? So what if he didn’t go to college--which is smart, given an athlete’s shelf life can be very short and college is doable any time, at any age, with or without functioning ACLs. Basketball is not.

As far as we know, LeBron James is not a rapist, child abuser or puppy torturer. He’s never been caught doping. His character isn’t bad; he’s just not particularly likable. So what? He’s an entertainer and does one hell of a great job doing just that. If you want him to have more humility, stop scrutinizing his every move. The press is complicit in the creation of LeBron James.

Chitty Chitty Bang Bang

2011-07-03T13:11:00.002+01:00

Roald Dahl's "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" features a child-loathing baroness who imprisons all of Vulgaria's children in her castle's dungeon. I remember watching that film for the first time at age 8 and thinking how could anyone hate children? That's like hating puppies or kittens or smiley faces. Only the most wretched human being in the (albeit, fictional) world could hate children.

My world, until landing in Bali, has been largely devoid of children. Not one child lived in my135-unit apartment building in San Francisco; in fact, I don't recall seeing any children in the entire Buena Vista neighborhood. I taught children's yoga at the French School for a while, a job I loved despite contracting every communicable disease possible, including chicken pox. Those little germ-balls made me sick, literally, but my affection never waned.

In Bali, my affection began to wane. Balinese children--specifically, Balinese boys--are incredibly LOUD. They don't speak, they shout. They're always dinging bells, pounding drums, kicking balls, running in flip-flops that slap the concrete emphatically, screaming, screaming, screaming, from about 7 a.m. until long after I've gone to bed for the night. Balinese girls, on the other hand, are perfect, just like their adult counterparts. Loud Balinese boys grow into even louder Balinese men.

In the waiting room for my flight from Singapore to Bali, a two-year old boy was literally running amuck, screaming, tossing toys, careening off of piqued travelers. His Balinese family laughed approvingly, snapped photos, plied him with candy. I watched the reaction of other travelers to that child. Suffice it to say, I was not, by far, the most irritated person in the waiting room that day. The Balinese are really big on spirits and protecting themselves from negative energies, including the evil eye. Their obliviousness to the mass reaction to their child baffled me.

My generation in the U.S., spawn of the spawn of European immigrants, grew up with a phrase: Children should be seen and not heard. Now, I realize that phrase today would constitute child abuse. I do not advocate abusing or silencing children. I know that noisy children don't disturb all Westerners. Some are more irked by the constantly crowing roosters (it's a fallacy that roosters crow only in the morning). Roosters don't bother me. Neither do barking dogs unless the dogs sound as if they're in pain. So, why (Balinese boy) children? I'm wondering--and this is the least P.C. thing I've ever written--if it's because I know they grow into Balinese men.

I'm wary of men to begin with, but while traveling wariness often waxes into disdain. I like American men and Canadians, South and Central Americans, Europeans, Brits, Aussies, Kiwis, Scotsmen, Irishmen, non-Arab Africans, Israelis, guys who hold doors open for women, help us stuff our carry-ons into the overheads, wave at us to cross the street in front of their vehicle. Balinese men would sooner run us over. And I can't help but wonder: Is this because they are taught, as children, that they can do anything they want and women (girls) don't matter?

Right now, it's 8 p.m. The little boys in the family compound across the alley, a stone's throw from my apartment's only windows, are watching television (the TV is outside) and shrieking. Ten feet away the big boys are smoking cigarettes, shouting at each other, revving their motorbikes (motorbikes, not motorcycles). The women are no where to be seen--they're too busy cooking, cleaning, washing dishes, ironing, preparing all the little offerings to the gods and demons, and doing every other task that actually matters.

I will say one thing for these Balinese men I've come to dislike--they are non-violent and non-threatening. Bali is safe for women travelers. And that fact alone counters all the noise those idiots outside my window are making right now.

7 Hours in Singapore

2011-06-28T11:05:00.000+01:00

The Koi Pond in the Singapore Airport, Changi, is set within an Orchid Garden blooming in a cornucopia of colors--fuchsia, burgundy, scarlet, lemon, teal, sapphire and ruby, framed by emerald leaves. Replete with waterfalls and small teakwood benches, the Orchid Garden, which is one of five gardens in Changi, offers travelers an oasis of serenity and beauty. For travelers through Changi with lengthy layovers, activities abound: art galleries, arts and crafts tables, free massage chairs and gym, movie theater and several children's playgrounds.

I love the Changi Airport. After much deliberation, I decided the Butterfly Garden was the highlight for me.

I spent 7 hours in Changi yesterday. I was on a visa run. Indonesian tourist visas are valid for 30 days, renewable for an additional 30 days. After that, tourists either need to leave the country and re-enter or renew their visas illegally through one of the many visa agents in Bali willing to do that. I'm too timorous to try illegal activities in any country other than my own. Besides, I love airports.

"The feeling is first class." That's the tagline Changi uses on its promotional billboards. For an economy traveler such as myself, first class usually seems as attainable as the summit of Mt. Everest. Air Asia, the airline on which I flew to and from Singapore, provides a particularly pitiful experience. But hanging out in Changi made me feel like I'd arrived first class.

Thank you, Changi.

Bali Bias

2011-06-26T04:13:00.000+01:00

Widi, a 20-year-old Balinese woman from a village near Ubud, completed the equivalent of an Associates Degree in Graphic Design and English from the local college. After graduating, she landed a job working for a design firm--a dream job, in many respects, which afforded her the opportunity to use her creativity, education and bilingual skills. It did not afford her, however, a basic Ubudian lifestyle. That's why she chose a new career: Starbucks barista.

1,000,000--one million rupiah. That's the average monthly salary for a Balinese local in Ubud. 1,000,000 rupiahs are about U.S. $116.

No matter how third world a developing country may be, a monthly salary of $116 is not enough money to live on.

The average cost of a tall Starbucks coffee in Ubud is 30,000 rupiahs (Indonesia really needs to drop a few zeroes from its currency to make it less ludicrous and confusing, but that's another blog post), or about U.S. $3.60. A local Balinese coffee lover who drinks one Starbucks coffee per day spends about 98% of his/her gross salary on lattes. Of course, local Balinese do not (can not, at those prices on their salaries) patronize Starbucks.

Locals can't afford to patronize a lot of the shops, restaurants, food markets, yoga studios, "healers" (Ubud means "medicine" in Balinese) and assorted other businesses in Ubud. This is not strictly a third world problem--I couldn't afford to shop in many of the stores I walked by daily in San Francisco and Manhattan. It's a matter of scale.

I rarely have an opportunity to interact with a local Balinese unless I'm paying that person for his or her services. This is one of the many differences between Indonesia and India. When I'm out and about in India, I interact with tons of locals in markets, cafes, temples, shared jeeps, on buses and trains. In Bali, the gap between locals who are prosperous by Balinese standards and visitors to Bali is unbridgeable.

Bias, in fashion, means slant or angle. Bias also means unfairness, bigotry, one-sidedness. In Bali, some are making their fortunes off the influx of expats who flock here for the Marin County vibe, fantastic climate, ease of life for westerners. Too bad it's rarely the locals who prosper.

Glimpse

2011-06-26T01:46:00.000+01:00

Travel Reading

2011-06-13T13:47:00.011+01:00

Time to read. That is perhaps the most beneficial aspect of travel for me. Without places to be and a car to shuttle me there, I am forced to spend most nights indoors and often alone. While my social skills may be deteriorating, my mind is sharpening. I'm writing more than I have at any other time in the past, and I'm devouring some great--and not so great--literature:

Salman Rushdie's The Enchantress of Florence, is a beautiful, brilliant, wickedly funny historic fairytale that makes me long to visit both Florence and Rajasthan. Two novels by Kiran Desai--Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard (funny, delightful social commentary) and The Inheritance of Loss, a poignant, haunting work which is set in Kalimpong, the first town I visited during my 2007 three-month Indian Himalayan soujourn.

Kalimpong is noted for its magnificent views of India's highest mountain peak, Kanchenjunga, and the plume of wind-blown snow that perpetually emanates from it--a captivating sight. Against this backdrop of beauty, Desai delivers her hard-hitting political commentary through characters who illustrate the complex social makeup of Indian society. Addressing a heartbreaking aspect of Indian diaspora and the enormous sacrifices immigrants make when leaving their homelands, The Inheritance of Loss also chronicles the dangers of staying behind during political unrest, such as the 1980s Gorkha National Liberation Front uprising in West Bengal. The novel won the Man Booker Prize in 2006.

I tend to love novels that win the Man Booker Prize and Aravind Adiga's The White Tiger (2008) is no exception. Desai, Adiga and Rushdie are all ethnic Indians, as is Abraham Verghese, whose novel, Cutting for Stone, is equal parts travelogue, history, social commentary and love story. Losing Gemma, written by an Englishwoman, Kate Gardner, is a travelogue/mystery set in India.

In keeping with my theme of works that are in some way connected to India, I also read an elementary version of Patanjali's Yoga Sutras. Despite being dumbed down considerably, I still found said Sutras mostly incomprehensible.

I discovered that F. Scott Fitzgerald was responsible for turning celebrity couples into one name. In Tender is the Night, written in the 1930s, he refers to his protagonists, Dick and Nicole Diver, as "Dicole." Several other Fitzgerald-isms have made their way into contemporary vernacular, but I forget what they are. I think I took notes somewhere, but my notebooks are so disorganized I may never find them. Just as well, Tender is the Night is a novel that warrants re-reading. F. Scott Fitzgerald is now officially my favorite author.

Yann Martel won the Man Booker Prize for Life of Pi (an Indian protagonist) in 2002. His latest novel, Beatrice and Virgil, is impossible to read without feeling something deeply. Martel uses the Holocaust as a metaphor for animal exploitation and the ensuing extinction of species. He also uses atrocities perpetrated upon animals as a metaphor for the Holocaust. He centers the novel around what I imagine is a biographical element, which allows readers to see the author as vulnerable and evokes tremendous empathy. Two months after finishing the story, I still feel my flesh tingle thinking about it. The mother of one of my close friends is a Holocaust survivor; it makes me weep for her and for everyone who has endured unspeakable horrors.

After Beatrice and Virgil, I needed to lighten up. I tried reading a piece of chick-lit drivel, but just couldn't do it. There was a time I could read about the fictional plights of Manhattan women on shopping sprees and actually enjoy the fluffiness of it all, but that time, apparently, has ended.

Finding Nouf is set in Saudi Arabia and officially confirmed that Saudi Arabia is country to which I would never wish to travel. I tried to read The Agony and Ecstasy, a historic novel about Michelangelo, but I found it poorly written and boring. Still, it was a bestseller... I also tried to read Nobel Laureate Doris Lessing's Ben, in the World, but Nobel Prize be damned. Depressing material needs to be balanced with something that doesn't make readers want to slit their throats. Maybe the book eventually does grace readers with redemption, but I wouldn't know. I couldn't stick with Lessing long enough to find out.

I read a biography of Madonna to inspire me to industriousness, and Jon Krakauer's Into the Wild to inspire me to write. Unfortunately, my reading curtailed dramatically when the Casey Anthony trial began. I've become addicted to Twitter feeds from the courthouse. The case is fascinating for so many reasons--young, pretty, pathological mother accused of murdering her adorable two-year old daughter. Virtually every bit of evidence is circumstantial, yet she could be sentenced to death if convicted. The prosecutors, consummate professionals, are introducing groundbreaking forensics, but that doesn't change the fact that there is no actual proof that Anthony killed her child. Everyone knows she killed her daughter Caylee, but the prosecutors can't prove it. If Casey Anthony is convicted, it will lead to more questions than answers: Was her conviction the fault of her seemingly incompetent counsel? Did the jury go with its gut rather than weigh the (lack of) evidence? And what precedent would a conviction set for future cases where evidence is in short supply? Is it better for Casey to be acquitted than lay the groundwork for innocent people to be convicted based on supposition and circumstantial evidence?

I'm reminded of O.J. Simpson. I think someone should give Casey Anthony a copy of Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. Remind her that she can't escape her conscience or her karma.

Adventures of a Con Artist

2011-06-04T07:33:00.000+01:00

Nyoman, my former BFF and the guy I paid to drive me around Bali, showed up at my room last night with a tragic story. His mom, stricken with asthma, he claimed, was having a serious asthma attack and he needed 300,000 rupiahs--about $40--to buy her an inhaler. He hated asking me, but this was, after all, an emergency. It was hard to turn him down, but I don't lend money. And because of recent developments with Nyoman, I didn't believe him. Finally, some sense and self-preservation had kicked in for me.

Nyoman was actually a series of unfortunate stories: the guesthouse owner wasn't paying him, his motorcycle needed repairs he could't afford, he lost not one, not two, but three cell phones during the month I knew him, his girlfriend dumped him, he was very sick, his mom was very sick, his father died leaving his family in debt. Every day brought a new revelation of Nyoman's plight. My compassion for him waned at times. Everybody has problems, I'd say. I'm a guest here, I don't want to hear about your problems all the time. His eyes always teared up when I didn't offer sympathy. And I'd walk away feeling like a cold, uncaring bitch.

Nyoman, it turns out, is an infamous Ubud criminal. He's done jail time. This came to light today when a local woman with whom I've become friendly and who's seen me with Nyoman numerous times, asked if she could speak with me privately. She told me what she knew: Nyoman had stolen from the previous guesthouse for which he was working; the place, he claimed, that wasn't paying him. That, of course, was also a lie. Here are some facts about Nyoman: he's a drug dealer, criminal, thief and very, very good liar.

The timing of these revelations is amazing to me. I've been absolutely addicted to the Twitter updates of the Casey Anthony murder trial. Casey Anthony, like Nyoman, is a consummate liar who is able to weave rich details into her fabrications. And like Nyoman, Casey Anthony presented herself as a very likable person. I'm convinced Nyoman is seriously mentally ill. The woman warning me said Nyoman is dangerous. But I know him to be primarily a coward.

I have to examine why I would attract and be attracted to this situation. Why, for over a month, I would associate with such a person. I'm left to face the facts of my own past duplicitousness. I used to lie a lot, and still struggle to tell the truth at times. I think of all the lies I'd told my parents when I was a teenager and in my twenties. And I finally realize how harmful lying is to others.

Lies create confusion in the person being lied to. It's crazy making. You don't know what to believe. You start to doubt your own ability to discern fact from fiction. You feel like you're going nuts. This is what I did to my mother. I know this now because this is what Nyoman had been doing to me.

I was cautioned to stay sweet when I see Nyoman, but steer clear. He had numerous opportunities to steal from me, but didn't. I think Nyoman is all about the con.

I take solace in the knowledge that many others were also conned by Nyoman. I resolve to practice rigorous honesty. I know everyone in my life is a mirror. What Nyoman reflected back to me forces me to strive harder to be a more honest person. There is no such thing as a little lie.

I also resolve to steer clear of sob-storytelling locals.

Reigning Dogs and Cats and Monkeys

2011-05-26T10:10:00.000+01:00

In Mysore, it was Butter Naan, a blonde street dog with eerie golden eyes who adopted the yoga students from Pattahbi Jois's shala. Butter Naan policed her six-block radius around the shala, chasing off any other strays who might try to benefit from yoga student handouts with a ferocity that was sometimes scary. Although super skinny, it was clear Butter Naan was not hard up for food. Several meals I'd prepared for her and left outside our house remained untouched. Better fare was to be had next door.

In Goa, it was my landlord's cat. At least I think she was my landlord's cat. When I first arrived, she slept on my terrace, a discreet distance from my front door. After a week or so, she began sleeping on the doormat, as I gingerly stepped over her entering and exiting my apartment. By the time I left, she was sleeping on my couch or in my closet, under a pile of dirty clothes.

A bounty of precious animals filled my days in Goa. Babysitting Phouka and Puck, orphaned infant lemurs, hanging out with the pack of dogs who also lived with at the Hicks' residence: Urchin, the patient white dog who allowed Phouka/Puck to pull her tail, ears, nose, ride on her back, nibble on her legs, Trinity, the three-legged dog who did not exhibit Urchin's generosity, but did have a charm all her own. Numerous other dogs and cats and monkeys.

Pay dirt in Bali: Shih-tzus!!! Chocko, the two-year-old shih-tzu who lives at one of my favorite Ubud restaurants, Savannah Moon, weighs about four pounds. His sister and mom, white dogs twice his size that resemble shih-tzus only slightly, and a Balinese street dog also live there. They seem like a very happy pack. Chocko is clearly the leader, rushing towards every stray that meanders up his street and barking like hell, chasing dogs 10 times his size and then returning to the restaurant to snuggle a customer. Kids and adults strolling by Savannah Moon, frequently call out, "Chockoooooo!" as they pass by.

"He's very popular," a waiter noted. "He's famous!"

A cat I named Bali moved in with me at my family homestay. She's a very sweet, affectionate Calico who's also very smart. She's already begun snuggling up to the family who owns the homestay, I assume in preparation for what she understands will be my eventual departure. The elderly man, Gustika, makes a big fuss about shooing her away when he sees me coming. But I'm on to him. I've caught him several times now napping on the couch in the front office, Bali curled into the crook of his arm.

Dual Pricing for Economic Recovery in the U.S.

2011-05-24T14:11:00.000+01:00

Developing countries frequently feature two prices for goods and services: a "local" price for citizens and the foreign price for tourists and ex-pats, which runs between three times and ten times as expensive as the local price.

I say it's time for the U.S. to adapt that policy.

As I watch the dollar continue to fade against other countries' currencies, I can't help but feel sorry us. The British pound, Euro, Canadian and Australian dollars are all much stronger than the U.S. dollar. Every day the Indian Rupee and Indonesian Rupiah rise against the dollar, slowly, slowly, as if doing so in such a way no one in the U.S. will notice.

I can make a logical case for adapting the dual pricing system in the U.S.: Most tourists to the U.S. are from England, Europe, Russia and Canada, countries that are on an upswing, financially. Further, comparatively speaking, the U.S. is like a developing country. Eroding infrastructure, educational institutions, health care systems and retirement accounts actually mimic Third World Country problems. Tourism, I'm guessing, is our biggest industry. People who tour the U.S. from abroad are rich (I'm assuming this because all Third World Country locals assume tourists are rich). Therefore, rich tourists to the U.S. should pay more for EVERYTHING than U.S. citizens.

It makes sense.

Another developing country practice I'd love to see instituted in the U.S. is the restriction that no one other than U.S. citizens should be allowed to buy U.S. land. Bali does that. So does Himachal Pradesh in India. What that means is ex-pats who want to build a home in Bali or the Indian Himalayas need to get a local to buy a plot of land and lease it to them. It's a win-win. The foreigners get their dream home and the locals become prosperous landowners.

Isn't owning property the American dream? If we can't afford to own it for ourselves, we should at least be able to capitalize on foreign ownership.

Finally, I think the U.S. should raise its import taxes. Like in India and Indonesia. Indonesia doesn't seem big on vitamins, so most of the supplements here are imported from the U.S. and taxed heavily. A bottle of 3 mg melatonin, 60 tablets, for example, which sells for about five bucks in the U.S. costs $30 here because of the import tax.

Raising import taxes would create U.S. jobs by forcing countries to build plants in the U.S. in order to avoid the tax. That means outsourced Apple computer manufacturers would have to open plants in the U.S. so that the Chinese company that actually makes the iPad, iPhone, MacPro, MacBook, etc. would have to start making them in the U.S.

Brilliant, right?

Fire Dance

2011-05-22T16:07:00.000+01:00

Traditional Balinese dance performances are nightly spectacles in Ubud. These elaborate dances are staged at temples and palaces and set to a musical cacophony of bells and drums, wind and stringed instruments. The Kecak dance performance I took in with another American, Lance, who was staying at my homestay (he and I are the only guests to stay longer than 1 night here) featured more performers than audience members. Lance says it was the highlight of his trip to Ubud.

Nyoman, the guy who works at my homestay, accompanied Lance and me to the performance. He stood discretely behind us, where non-paying locals gather. The paying audience is seated close to the performers--too close. At various points during the dance the dancers plop down on the ground, chanting, "chucka, chucka, chucka, chucka," their bums touching our feet. When the fire dancers lit enormous torches and began swirling around somewhat dangerously, Nyoman crept closer for a better look. As the fire began shooting out in all directions, Nyoman let out a small whimper and promptly retreated to a safer distance. Lance stared at the performers, enthralled. I was too worried about third degree burns to enjoy the show.

I could have predicted Nyoman wouldn't stick around for the fire portion of the dance. He is, as I repeatedly tell him, a scaredy cat, a cry baby. I've made him cry several times by explaining to him that everyone (not just him) has problems. And that as a paying customer of the homestay, I'm sick of being overwhelmed by a constant litany of his problems--the owner isn't paying him (Lance doesn't believe this is true), the paid workers are lazy, the boss is mean and yells at him, he can't afford petrol for his scooter, he doesn't feel well, he has only 2 shirts and 1 pair of pants. He's interrupted my breakfast, several times, plopping down on a chair across from mine on my lanai, smoking, complaining about his boss. Interrupting my meals is never a good idea. No one gets between me and my food.

Nyoman drove me to an appointment with a reflexologist, Nyoman Sundana, who marveled that I didn't cry or sweat or scream while the healer tortured my feet, pounding them with wooden sticks and pressing them urgently with his gnarled hands. Mr. Sundana said most people cry out in pain. Some just plain cry. I explained I was using ujaya breathing, which I practice in yoga, to stay relaxed. The entire village had gathered to watch my outdoors healing session. Mr. Sundana narrated to the crowd, as a means of explanation for my lack of tears, "She's a yogi." It's the best compliment I've ever received.

Mr. Sundana told Nyoman (my new best friend) that he needed healing too and offered him a free reflexology session. After Nyoman returned from his healing session I asked him, "Did you cry?" Nyoman shook his adamantly, proclaiming his session was very pleasant and he didn't understand why everyone says it's so painful. The following week I returned to Mr. Sundana and was told that Nyoman "cried like a baby" during his session.

Nyoman flashed a sheepish grin. "Okay. I cried. But only a little."

The Balinese believe in bad spirits. They believe in good spirits too, but they spend a lot of time warding off the evil ones. Each morning begins with rituals and offerings of flowers, rice, incense and banana leaves to the gods to appease the bad spirits. If you happen to walk into a restaurant or store while the locals are placing their offerings around the doors and windows and tables and altars, they finish with their offerings before waiting on you. In Bali, appeasing the spirits takes precedence over everything.

A young local artist, Ayu, paints with her feet because her arms are paralyzed. She also suffers from developmental disabilities. The reason for Ayu's disabilities, I was told by her aunt, is bad spirits. When she was three months old and in perfect health, the whole village was invited to a ceremony celebrating Ayu's birth. Someone at that ceremony performed black magic on the infant. After the ceremony Ayu fell ill and was left paralyzed and brain injured.

"Did she run a high fever?" I asked.

"Yes," her aunt said.

"The high fever is what caused her brain injury," I explained.

"The bad spirits caused the high fever," the aunt countered.

Mr. Sundana had asked me if I wanted to learn magic.

"NO!" I said, explaining I believe magic is best left to Las Vegas lounge acts.

"Lots of magic in Ubud," the healer said.

He's got that right. Verdant hills, forests and winding rivers, rice paddies and fragrant flowers everywhere--Ubud is magical.

American Dream

2011-05-14T02:23:00.000+01:00

In Indonesia, public school is not free. That’s why Nyoman, the young man who works at my guest house despite not receiving a salary, has no high school diploma. Back when he was in school, education was not subsidized and his parents could afford only to pay for elementary school. Things are changing in Indonesia, however. Nyoman tells me now the government subsidizes a portion of Indonesians’ early education.

The U.S., on the other hand, is becoming more like Indonesia used to be. U.S. taxpayers grumble about tax dollars funding public schools. It seems the first casualty of every budgetary cutback is education. While developing nations are developing infrastructure (roads, bridges, rail service that makes mobility simple), the U.S. is seemingly falling apart.

Two fellow Americans pointed out that’s because wealthy Americans don’t need infrastructure--they drive, or rather, are driven, in Hummer-like vehicles that can handle any terrain. They travel in private jets and helicopters.

The wealthy don’t need public education--they send their kids to private schools.

Wealthy people don’t need health care or health insurance--they can afford their own private doctors and hospitals.

The rich don’t even need a police force--their estates are fortresses policed by private security details and sophisticated surveillance systems; their persons are protected by retired Navy Seals and ex-SWAT team members.

It makes sense for the wealthy to resist paying taxes. They don’t need any of the services that taxes fund. Or, rather, could fund if the people who can afford to pay taxes actually paid taxes. Which, in the U.S., they don’t.

The middle class and poor, who comprise the vast majority of Americans, on the other hand, can’t afford to become ill, even when we have health insurance. Co-pays can cripple the average American’s budget. The typical health-insured American can expect to wait months for a doctor’s appointment with a specialist when the general practitioner is unable to effectively treat an illness or injury. And forget pharmaceuticals. If you do become ill in the U.S. you better hope your treatment doesn’t include prescription meds. Americans can't afford to retire.

Traveling abroad always deepens my love of the U.S. and, simultaneously, triggers fear--the fear I will not be able to afford to come home.

For me, there’s something inherently shameful about being an American who is not wealthy. Locals I meet while traveling assume that since I'm from USA I must be rich. I’m from the land of equal opportunity where high school dropouts become millionaires through hard work. If I'm from the States and I'm not rich, there's obviously something wrong with me. Or I'm just really really lazy.

While browsing in Ubud's Ganesha bookstore, I came across several titles that contain the words "second half of life." One was about investing, one about finding meaningful work, one about making the years from 50 until death your best. That book claims that the least hardest working people are the young and the old. I reflect back on my mid-twenties when I held 3 jobs simultaneously. Damn, I wish I could summon that level of industriousness again. I'm going to need it.

In Goa, I hung out with a group of ex-pats who volunteer with International Animal Rescue there. One woman, Linda, shared her reason for making Goa her permanent home: “In the U.S. I can survive on my retirement income; in Goa, I can live.”

I think it sucks that a lot of Americans will have to leave the U.S. during the last half of their lives in order to live.

Village People

2011-05-10T13:24:00.000+01:00

“No money, no honey.” That’s the reason Nyoman, the 26-year old who works at the family homestay at which I’m currently domeciled, offered when I asked why he wasn’t married. The last Balinese girl he dated left him, heartbroken, the moment she asked him to buy her something that he couldn’t afford. She found herself a man with more means. I told Nyoman in the U.S. we have a word for women like his ex-girlfriend. To illustrate, I hooked up my favorite new travel toy to my iPod and played for Nyoman the only Kanye West song in my music library: Gold Digger.

Nyoman is currently working at this homestay for three months, without pay, as a trial run, the owner told him. After three months, if he proves himself worthy of a salary, she says she will begin paying him. When I suggested that the end of his three-month trial coincides with the end of the tourist season and then she’d have the excuse of no customers to let him go, his big cloudy brown eyes welled up with tears that streamed over his round cheeks. He has no choice, no other employment possibilities, he explained, because he has no high school diploma. No diploma, no job.

Nyoman is the only person working here who speaks English. The owner needs him to translate the constant complaints of the tourists who stay here: there’s no hot water, the kitchen is filthy, we need towels, we’re out of coffee, we’re out of water, the giant geckos lurking on our ceilings are pooping all over our beds. The owner, a woman of perhaps 50, floats around in her Balinese lace blouses and long silk skirts, smiling, oblivious to our discontent. Nyoman runs around like one of the dozens of chickens and roosters that are a part of every family compound, trying to stay on top of our requests.

The second youngest of eight children, Nyoman has a brother who is also named Nyoman. The Balinese method of naming children is formulaic: the first child is always named Wayan, the second Made (pronounced “mah day”), the third Nyoman and the fourth Ketut. If more children are born, the naming process starts from the beginning. Nyoman has a brother and a sister named Made. This, to me, speaks volumes about Balinese culture, which seems devoid of egotism. Nyoman could use a serious ego boost, in my opinion. He is clearly suffering from low self-esteem.

I’d been warned that a drawback to staying in a Balinese family compound is the tendency for tourists to get sucked into the family drama. Of course it takes a sucker to get sucked in. Currently, in this compound, that sucker would be me. I thank God no one else here, except for the other foreigners, none of whom stick around for long, is capable of communicating with me.

Oddly, I kind of like it here, poopy geckos and all. Or, at least, I don’t dislike it. I’ve got my little routine down and I have plans to move to yogic retreat housing next month. After my first night, I switched bungalows within the compound. I am now staying in the owner’s personal part-time residence. The room I originally rented shares a wall with the temple next door, which blasts Gamelan music from 5 p.m. until midnight on the nights when the shrieks of men playing badminton along with thwacks of the birdie are not raising a raucous. I'd stressed, through Nyoman, that I need quiet. I am very sensitive, I explained.

Balinese family compounds contain their own temples. The culture here is lovely and gentle (except for the music). Central Ubud reminds me of College Avenue in Berkeley: tons of crunchy clothing boutiques, shops featuring yoga clothes and accoutrements, organic cafes, coffee shops, spas and nail salons. Bali feels like a very gentle respite from India. Life is easier here. Electricity is reliable. Roads are paved and are outfitted with traffic lights, lanes and stop signs. There are sidewalks! Compared to India, Bali is pristine. I may end up staying here much longer than I'd first anticipated. I've promised not to leave until I've helped Nyoman find a job that pays.

The Cost of Energy

2011-05-04T08:50:00.000+01:00

I've been traveling for three months with intermittent Internet connection. News, for me, travels slowly. I found out about Osama Bin Laden's death and the April tornadoes that swept through the U.S. south days after they occurred. But I happened to have been planted in front of CNN when news of Japan's earthquake, tsunamis and subsequent nuclear crisis broke back in March. I was in Mysore, India, encapsulated within the international yoga community there, which includes many yogis from Japan. And also one young American with a perspective on nuclear energy that goes against the typical crunchy yogic grain.

Apres yoga one morning a group of us were hanging out, discussing how wrong nuclear energy is. Japan's crisis proved our point--nuclear energy and planet Earth are incompatible. So much of the world is sunny, we cried, why isn't solar energy the norm instead of the rare exception? One young yogi, Owen, age 24, offered an explanation.

Owen happens to hold a masters in nuclear engineering and radiological science. As a traveling, unpaid volunteer with an organization that seeks to eradicate human trafficking, clearly he's a do-gooder, which to me seemed at odds with his professional life as a proponent, an actual facilitator, of nuclear energy. But here's the deal. We humans are energy hogs. And there is not enough material to produce solar semi-conductors in a cost effective manner. Solar energy is 7 or 8 times more costly per kilowatt hour than nuclear energy. And most of us are unwilling to spend that much money for environmentally-friendly, non-nuclear electricity.

Owen stressed that it was physically impossible for Fukushima to turn into another Chernobyl. But my nuclear fears were less about meltdowns than about nuclear power plants being taken over by terrorists. Owen explained: nuclear weapons require 96% enriched uranium; the amount of enriched uranium in a nuclear energy plant is 4%. What if a terrorist flies a plane into a nuclear reactor? "Between 200 and 300 Ph.D.s go over every aspect of the project--homeland security, physical security. These reactors can withstand fighter jets crashing into them."

Okay, fine, I said, but what about corruption? What if a nuclear scientist working at reactor decides to go jihad?

"The thought of corruption is laughable," Owen scoffed. "Nuclear scientists are hardcore geeks who believe in bureaucracy--the best kind of bureaucracy and procedures." The checks and balances in place would render it unthinkable that a reactor could meltdown as the result of an intentional inside job.

Owen chose nuclear engineering because he "liked learning something highly contentious" and he enjoys imparting knowledge that helps open the recipient's mind. Mine, for example. In fact, he experienced a similar shift in thinking and emotions when he began studying the subject. "Nuclear engineering is a really exciting field to work in. These are unprecedented times right now."

As Japan is left to deal with the aftermath of its devastating natural disasters and fallout from its unnatural nuclear crisis, the rest of the world has moved on. Pakistan is dealing with allegations that its army is either incompetent or has been harboring Bin Laden all along; Libya, Syria and Jordan are in a state of militant chaos; a tornado just struck Auckland; many Americans still can't afford health care; apparently a royal wedding occurred over the weekend and the newlyweds have already returned from their honeymoon. Radioactive waste has been supplanted in the headlines.

In writing this post, I don't mean to imply I've become a fan of nuclear energy. It's just that I now understand why it's necessary, and I'm happy to know that people like Owen bring consciousness and a strong commitment to this planet and its people to their work with nuclear energy.

A Farewell To Dad

2011-05-03T07:14:00.000+01:00

On Easter Sunday, I scattered my Dad's ashes in the Arabian Sea on the coast of Southern Goa. I'd put considerable thought into the location for my Dad's final resting place. He'd told me, many times, that he wanted to be somewhere warm and that he did not want to be stuck in the ground, so choosing a beach (he loved the beach and the ocean, and had lived the latter years of his life in Tampa Bay) felt right. But how to choose which beach was my dilemma. Florida didn't feel right to me--he has no family there, no lasting connection, no roots. My father's father was Portuguese, but Portugal enjoys a temperate climate and did not seem to qualify as warm enough. And while my Dad had no affinity for India, I chose Goa because it was once a Portuguese colony and Goa is always warm. So with trepidation, I said goodbye to my Dad on the day of resurrection in the land of rebirth.

I found it difficult to let go of my Dad's ashes. When a person dies and is buried, there remains a permanent reminder of their life--a grave, a tombstone. But when a person is cremated, once their ashes are spread, they are gone, permanently. No physical marker remains. While scattering my Dad's ashes, I felt sorrow, of course, and also anxiety. Was I making the right choice? In the end, I decided to hold on a little longer--I kept a small amount of the ashes.

As Easter Sunday passed, my anxiety grew. My disenchantment with India was also growing and thinking that I'd left my Dad--most of him--in a country that wasn't good enough for him caused me to regret my choice. I wished I could go back to that beach in Cavelossim and scoop him up, hold on to him, take him somewhere else.

In Bombay, on the shuttle bus from the domestic air terminal to the international terminal, I overhead a conversation between a British man, who'd been living in Goa for 10 years, and a man from Holland. The Brit was giving a discourse on India's most beautiful and pristine beaches. His choice: Cavelossim. He described the white sandy beach and the clear azure waters of the quiet fishing beach. Then he said there was one spot in particular he thinks is blessed--a place where the Arabian Sea meets the River Sal ("sal" is Portuguese for "salt"). He said that stretch of beach is, in his opinion, the most serene. That was the exact location of where I scattered my Dad's ashes.

Goldilocks in Goa

2011-04-20T13:13:00.000+01:00

By the time I left Mysore, I’d decided Mysore itself was responsible for my growing discontent: it was too filthy, too loud, too urban. When I arrived in Goa, India’s tiniest state, I felt a resurgence of joy buoyed by Goa’s relative tranquility and cleanliness. Now, three weeks later, Goa has lost its initial charm: it’s too hot, too humid, too... hot.

Of course, I knew it would be hot. It’s summer in Southern India, on the brink of monsoon season, when the temperatures are peaking right before the rains come. Also, I’d been warned it would be uncomfortably hot here during April, which is the beginning of the off-season.

There are advantages to traveling off-season: fewer crowds, lower prices, increased spending power. And, despite the heat, I am grateful to be here, to be traveling among other yogis with built-in community and fellowship and tons of options for dining and sightseeing and hanging out. My last time traveling off-season was to the Indian Himalayas for three months during the winter. And while cold weather is much more comfortable for me than hot, I would choose this heat/discomfort any day because of the lovely people with whom I get to spend my time on this trip.

Specifically to study yoga with the extraordinary Rolf and Marci Naujokat, I’m in Candolim, a scruffy beach town in Goa, which was colonized by the Portuguese in 1507. Goa meanders along the Arabian Sea much the same as Portugal coasts along the Atlantic. When the Portuguese finally departed Goa in 1961, the last of India’s invaders to pull out, they left behind lush, verdant towns dotted with red-tiled roof villas, a cuisine swimming with seafood delicacies, Catholicism and its incumbent abundance of churches dedicated to myriad saints and an array of surnames. My landlord, for example, is Miguel Fernandez.

It’s easy to see the Hindu origins of Goan Catholics. Indian families frequently choose one of the 36,000,000 Hindu gods as their household god. In Goa, the Catholics choose one of the more than 10,000 Catholic saints. The household saint of my landlord and his family is St. Anthony.

St. Anthony is one of my favorite saints. He is the saint of lost objects. The simple prayer for his help to find something that’s missing is said to always work. At least that’s what I’m saying because except for once it has always worked for me. St. Anthony is also the saint of marriage.

I leave Goa on April 28th and head to Bali for more yoga. I hope to return to Goa in the late Fall because I think I would LOVE it here if the weather was a bit more comfortable. In addition to the yoga instruction I’m receiving here, I found other treasures: a British hairstylist (Phil the hairstylist) who gave me a 70’s-ish style shag and a Thai salon colorist who uses Kerastase products.

Then again, if I continue to refuse to focus on how lucky I am to have the life I have, to be healthy, to have this opportunity to travel, it won’t matter how pleasant the weather is. I’ll still find reasons to long to be somewhere else.

People For Animals: A Little Goes A Long Way

2011-04-13T11:26:00.000+01:00

$5--it will buy you a latte and leave a little extra for a tip or a tube of toothpaste or 2 packs of Orbit gum, or about 10 minutes of metered parking in San Francisco. Most of us don't think twice about dropping $5 for some insignificant item or another.

But $5 in India goes a long way. It will buy you one night in a decent guesthouse, dinner for two, a rickshaw driver for about two hours.

$5 will also feed one dog and one cat rescued by Mysore's People For Animals for one month.

I know there are hundreds of charities vying for your donations. Please consider a $5 donation to Mysore's People For Animals.

When PBS launches a fundraising campaign, it always offers incentives. $100 will get you a magazine subscription or a tote bag or a calendar. Well, I'm going to see PBS's incentives and raise them: For a $100 donation to Mysore's PFA, I'll gladly bring you back a puppy or kitten when I return to the U.S. in December! Or a pony!

Here's how to make a donation using PayPal: http://www.chipin.com/mypages/edit/id/2c77e43879ac6c9c

Phouka Sitting

2011-04-12T16:20:00.000+01:00

Phouka is a three-month old Langur monkey who was rescued as a newborn by Goa’s International Animal Rescue when his mom was accidentally electrocuted, a fate that befalls thousands of Indian monkeys each year. Because baby monkeys in the wild are never left alone by their families, IAR arranges for Phouka to have round-the-clock care seven days a week. Volunteers are used to relieve IAR cofounder, Jo Hicks, who is Phouka’s surrogate mom, so that Jo can run errands, rescue puppies and kittens from the local markets, battle Indian government bureaucracy and eat lunch. I’m the new Tuesday Phouka babysitter.

Despite my considerable credentials as baby, dog and cat sitter, Jo insisted on pre-screening me before entrusting Phouka to my care. You see, Phouka’s particular. He’s no puppy, undiscerning and eager to be loved. Phouka has definitive likes and dislikes, though from what I’ve observed it seems clear he generally likes women and categorically dislikes men.

Phouka is a tiny little gray and black monkey with enormous ears and feet, which make him look cartoonish. He can be described with various cliched adjectives--adorable, human-like, funny, mischievous. Also, perhaps owing to his tragic loss early in life: clingy, needy. For example, he insisted on accompanying me to the loo, which he accomplished by velcroing himself to my calve.

At various points during the morning, Phouka demonstrated adventurous boldness, bouncing around the patio on which we were situated, climbing on his favorite dog, Urchin, peaking over the balcony when he heard a familiar voice calling out from the pool below. If he lost sight of me for even a split second, however, he let out a distressed shriek and came flying back to attach himself to my head, promptly dislodging a piece of my hair and chewing on it.

He showered me with kisses and, less appealing, pee. He napped nestled to my ribs. He chewed on pistachio nut shells and painstakingly took about 10 minutes to eat one grape. He snatched the business card I was using as a bookmark and, generously, gave it to Urchin, stashing it safely in her ear.

We played hide and seek. He reminded me so much of other toddlers for whom I’d babysat that at one point I began reading to him. That’s when he made it clear he was a monkey after all. He sat on my book (White Tiger) and began gnawing on its pages.

Our day progressed serenely until Glenn, a British volunteer who is spending a year helping out at the monkey sanctuary, made an appearance. That’s when Phouka’s dark side emerged. He hissed and howled at Glenn. Phouka will not stand for sharing any of his attention from women with another male.

It was clear Phouka liked me a lot, which produced in me a heady feeling. I’m so great with animals, I thought. Animals love me. But then Jo returned and Phouka promptly attached himself to her without so much as a goodbye peck for me, just like every other child for whom I babysit does when his mom comes home.

***

Animal torture, neglect and suffering is rampant in India and everywhere else in the world. In developed countries, such as the U.S., where the abuse is often hidden (as in the food industry) and categorized as scientific research (otherwise known as vivisection), it’s much easier to ignore than in India where human cruelty and indifference towards animals is blatant. But in all societies, the chief culprit in animal abuse is the same: ignorance.

Our personal choices determine how animals are treated. It starts with simple awareness and questioning. Most of us know how much our food and other animal goods cost us. But how many of us are willing to consider the cost to animals?

Freedom

2011-04-07T15:09:00.000+01:00

2010 was a bad year for me. First I lost my job, a job I’d held for 19 years, a job which afforded me not only a certain lifestyle but also defined me as a writer. With the ensuing unemployment followed by under employment, I was forced to sell my condominium in a short sale, an event that announced to my friends, family and neighbors that I was now a failure. Smaller losses also ensued: my expensive hobby as a flying trapeze artist, ski weekends in Tahoe, shopping sprees, retirement accounts and health insurance.

My final loss was most devastating of all. Right before Thanksgiving, which was also my 50th birthday, my 14-year-old shih tzu, Jersey, the love of my life, succumbed to a three-year battle with kidney failure. His death, I believe, hastened by financial constraints which necessitated the elimination of his weekly acupuncture sessions that helped keep his kidneys functioning. With both my heart and spirit broken and feeling a sorrow I will never be able to describe, I was forced to face the sum of my dramatically downsized existence. By the end of 2010, I had lost my identity.

“Freedom,” according to Kris Kristofferson, “is just another word for nothing left to lose.” Being free, I sought to do something meaningful with all this lack of commitments. I stuffed what few clothes I had, mainly yoga outfits, into a carry-on backpack, sold off some furniture, and stuck the rest of my belongings in a storage unit. Then I bought a one-way ticket to India.

I’m a recovering alcoholic and, as such, have suffered existential crises before. I remember my father, when I was in my early 20s and on the brink of being expelled from college, earnestly asking if my lack of direction was an attempt to find myself. Back then, I was totally fucked up, misguided, but not lost. I had parents, pets, a sister, friends, extended family, an apartment. Thirty years later, if my father, who I have since lost, were to ask that question I would have to reply, sadly, “Yes.”

I’m trying to find the writer in me. Or, if she no longer exists, something else. After 20 years of recovery accompanied by the requisite immersion in metaphysical musings, I’ve come to believe--or at least hope--that everyone has a purpose in life. But for the first time ever, I have no idea what mine is.

Attempts to restart my stalled career have met with abject failure.The first draft of a novel I began five years ago now seems trite, irrelevant, boring. I’m in India, practicing yoga daily, and two months into this new life, I am just as clueless about my future as I was when I first landed in Mysore. “Practice [yoga] and all is coming,” my guru, Shri K. Pattabhi Jois, who passed away in May 2009, famously proclaimed. I have just one question for Guruji: When?

Being lost at age 50 is a lot more pathetic than seeming lost at age 20 was. Twenty year olds are entitled to their mishegas. Fifty year olds are not. Fifty year olds should be contemplating retirement, looking forward to grandchildren, winter homes in Miami, discounted museum entry fees. Fifty year olds should own homes, drive late model cars, contribute heavily to charities, tithe, take care of their mothers instead of moving back to their childhood homes so their mothers will take care of them (as I’m planning to do). Fifty year olds should not be sitting on the balcony of their un-air-conditioned guest house in sweltering Southern India fretting over whether to spend 300 rupees to take a taxi to the local animal shelter or tough it out on the dilapidated local bus for 10 rupees.

I’ve gone through myriad emotions since arriving in India. For the first few weeks, every morning after yoga, I sobbed, images of Jersey and my sister and my father and my collie dog Gus, all of whom are now gone, rolling through my mind, and missing each of them so deeply it literally hurt. But sadness is not something I suffer bravely. I have a method of dealing with sorrow that is quite effective, though unpleasant for everyone with whom I come in contact. I turn my attention away from thoughts that make me sad to thoughts that make me angry. I choose anger over sadness. And believe me, I find no shortage of things in India, and everywhere else, that piss me off.

When it comes right down to it, though, the thing that pisses me off most is me.

I have another three weeks in Goa, practicing yoga at Yoga Bones, before heading to Bali for more yoga. Guruji’s words roll through my mind like a mantra: “Practice and all is coming.”

I just hope he’s right.

Mysore Shopping Spree!

2011-03-29T02:16:00.000+01:00

$1,225: that's the amount of money raised as of early Monday morning, India time, for Mysore's People For Animals in three short weeks.

Yesterday it was time to spend the money and, I'm happy to report, a very successful shopping trip was accomplished. We bought huge waterproof tarp, steel beams, rope and other do-dads to build nice shady shelter, dog and cat food, oats, rice, toys, blankets, towels, torches, shampoos, brushes, cleaning supplies, a ceramic tub (for bathing dogs and other critters), oxygen tank and a small one-burner stove for preparing rice. We drew up plans for the the shady shelter and hired day laborers to erect it by Wed. 30 March, at which time I will be inspecting it, photographing it and posting it here!

Thank you, dear friends, for your generous contributions.

Lynn update: On Thurs. I leave for Goa and, far more exciting, I'm trading up altogether, India for Indonesia. On 28 April, I head to Bali!