We’re driving through Hyderabad. Krishnaveni points in a direction and says, “Over there is the Jew park.”
I’m not sure I’ve understood correctly. “The Jew park?”
“Yes – you don’t have the Jews in America?”
“Yes, we have Jews. And I guess sometimes they live in the same neighborhood.” To myself I’m thinking, this seems slightly strange.
Krishnaveni continues, “Yes, you can see the animals.”

It’s then that I realize she’s saying “zoo park.” This makes me feel much more comfortable with the conversation.

When these words are said, they usually have the opposite effect as intended. For one often isn’t alarmed, until told one shouldn’t be.

Halfway en route to Hyderabad, the pilot announces that everything is under control, not to be alarmed, but due to mechanical difficulties we are returning to Delhi. I wonder about this. We are one hour into the two hour flight. Wouldn’t it be more effective just to continue? Either way, it will take an hour to get to an airport. I’m assuming they have mechanics in Hyderabad.

I see all the passengers looking around with questioning eyes. The flight attendants come through the aisle, smiling, reminding everyone to buckle their seat belts. Several people ask questions, and I hear a Hindi answer with a sprinkling of English: technical, okay, new aircraft.

The return to Delhi seems more turbulent. Almost as though the pilot does not have control of the plane. We rock back and forth, and bump up and down. I keep telling myself that I’m imagining this , that it’s just a little turbulence. I see Delhi below us. We descend, and hit the landing strip with a thud. And don’t seem to be slowing down. We finally do, then come to a halt. It’s then that I notice the dozen fire trucks moving along side and behind us. And the dozens of jeeps with bright yellow “Safety Taxi” plastered on their sides. The flight attendants tell us to remain seated. I watch men in bright yellow and red helmets and orange safety vests examining the landing gear. Standing, pointing, nodding, walking around, stopping down, taking pictures with their mobile phones. After what seems like an eternity, we de-plane, board a bus, and are driven to another Air India plane. As we are walking up the stairs to board, the older Muslim man in front of me, white crocheted skull cap snug over his salt and pepper hair, turns to me. “God is watching over us today. Otherwise, we would have crashed and died. Thanks God.”

I smile. Yes, thanks God.

The guidebook showed a photo of a river with the caption, “Every evening at sunset, the river is full of lighted lamps, set afloat by the faithful.”

The text explained the evening ritual: at nightfall small lamps are lit, flowers are tossed into the river, and the lamps are floated onto the river with prayers. This sounded very holy. And very peaceful. And it appeared to be on the road on the way home from Agra, where we had just visited the Taj Mahal and Agra Fort. What better way to end the day than with a peaceful, serene visit to a lovely riverside village?

Everyone was up for it. The driver turned off the main highway. He slowed down and asked for directions. A few minutes later, he slowed down again, rolled the window down, and my colleague sitting in the front seat who also speaks Hindi asked for directions. I listened carefully and realized he was asking for the birthplace of Krishna. “No, no, no,” I interrupted. “Not the birthplace of Krishna, Vishram Ghat. Where Krishna rested. Look, here in the book.” Ahhh, the man pointed straight ahead. This practice continued, slowing down, rolling down the window, asking for directions – to police, to soldiers, to men waiting for the bus, to a man on a bicycle – and we eventually got closer and closer and closer to Vishram Ghat. At one of the intersections, the kind direction giver pointed to the right. The three of us in the backseat said, “Thank god we don’t have to go down that street,” pointing to the left to a narrow alleyway teeming with people, rickshaws, bicycles, and motorbikes.

I was surprised the driver didn’t park the car and tell us to take a rickshaw. Or walk. I probably would have, had I been driving. That’s another thing I admire so much about India – the persistence. It will happen.

And it did. We arrived to the river front and were told, by a priest, that basically only amateurs light the lamps to float on the river. The *real* blessing happened at his spot at 7 pm. We continued to the waterfront, followed closely by a cow. Even though we weren’t going to see the idyllic scene we had imagined, we figured we could throw the flowers into the river, light the candle, say a prayer, and set our three lamps afloat.

Once back in the car, we realized the alley was too narrow to turn the car around, so we continued in the same direction. Right to the street where we earlier had uttered, “Thank god we don’t have to go down that street.” Famous last words. We eked along, trying to avoid pedestrians, bicycles, motorbikes, rickshaws, and the occasional other car. A couple of times my colleague in the front seat had to get out of the car to move a parked motorbike over a few inches, so that we could continue. Most people walking by laughed as they watched us try to navigate the tiny alley, although a few hit the car, raised their hands in a questioning position, and asked what I believed to be the Hindi version of “WTF?” We were the sole source of what must have been the village’s worst traffic jam in ages.

After what seemed like forever, we were back on the highway. Several minutes passed in silence until my colleague said, “I don’t think that guidebook is so good.”

My favorite breakfast is oatmeal. Preferably with fruit, but fine without. When I travel, I carry packets of instant oatmeal to eat for breakfast. Lunch and dinner I’ll go completely local – street food, restaurants, snacks – but for breakfast I crave a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of green tea.

Day one in Delhi – I call room service.

“I’d like a kettle of boiling water, a bowl, a…” I’m cut off.
“Toast?”
“No, not toast. A bowl.”
“Toast?”
I think. Is there another word I can use for bowl? Not really. “No. No food. A bowl and spoon.”
“Oh. Bowl.”
I listen to his pronunciation. Sounds the same as what I said. “And a cup.”
“Cup of tea?”
“No, no tea, just a cup.”
“Black tea?”
“No, just a cup.”
“Ok, ma’am.”

I wonder what will arrive. I get an ice bucket filled with boiling water, a tin bowl, and a spoon. I ask for a cup (pantomiming). He returns with a cup of black tea.

This happens each morning, with varying success. Today, day 5, I call room service. “Good morning, I’d like hot water…” He cuts me off. “Okay, ma’am.” And brings up exactly what I was expecting. Oh, India, I’m beginning to love you.

I was given a notebook by our local staff. On the cover is the quote : Common every day. Live to become fine with the happiness because of having you to keep company with.

I’m not sure I understand, but I think I like it.

I stand and watch silently as my colleague negotiates the fare for the auto-rickshaw. A pack of drivers gather round, an informal union of sorts. The driver names a price and Dinesh counters in Hindi. I stand quietly, trying, unsuccessfully, to appear inconspicuous. I know that my tall white presence does not help his bargaining. Dinesh offers a price, the equivalent of about 45 cents. The driver shakes his head. The others kick the dirt and shake their heads, offended at his offer. They click their tongues and turn their backs.

I watch. I’ve seen this too often. The drivers all appear offended, but they’re watching. They’re waiting. They’re assessing how much the passenger will give, both in the bargaining process and for the fare. I spot the one – the one that will take us for the price Dinesh is offering. He’s got playful black eyes and a rotund pot belly, sweat forming a large oval on the front of his shirt. I stare at the drivers’ feet, noticing they all are wearing similar sandals, all have similarly dusty feet. After several rounds of Dinesh offering the same price and the original driver appearing offended, our guy steps forward and motions for us to follow him to his vehicle. I silently wonder if the other drivers are angry. We would have eventually paid the 10 extra rupees being asked.

As we get into the auto-rickshaw, I quietly say to Dinesh, “You’re good at that. I’m not such a good bargainer.” He replies, “I hate that. I hate the bargaining back and…”

“Don’t hate me!

We look at the driver. “Don’t hate me. This is hard work. It’s hot, this is hard. Where you go, not many people. How will I get another…”

Dinesh interrupts, “Not you – I don’t hate you; I hate the bargaining.”

And all is well. We putt putt our way onto the highway and our driver breaks into song in Hindi. He sings a few verses and tells us he will entertain us. I’m laughing; the hot air of the night washing over me as if I’ve just opened the oven door. He alternates between slightly broken English and Hindi. “I will be your blood.” This catches my ear. ?? “You will not be able to forget me. I make you so happy.” At the moment I am so happy that I am not alone with him. Another Hindi song and I notice he’s adjusted his rearview mirror and he’s staring directly at me. I know, I’ve accepted, I won’t contest India always wins, so I simply laugh as the hot wind blows my hair out of its tightly twisted knot. There’s no point in getting upset. Horns blare all around us. Cars come perilously close to our open vehicle. He swerves to miss a pothole. I hear Hindi, then, “First whiskey, then no whiskey, then you love the Indian.” I glance up. What is this jibberish? He’s smiling at me in the rear view mirror. “See, I told you I entertain.” I laugh silently, glad for the moment that India always wins.

The thing I love most about travel is that suddenly magic is everywhere. Or maybe it’s always there, but I just don’t notice it in when I’m wrapped up in the ennui of my everyday routine. A few of my favorite Barcelona moments…

Montserrat
On the funicular at Montserrat, we sat at the front, eager to see the views as we ascended the mountain. Moments before our ascent, a group of chatty, elderly Spaniards boarded. They crowded in. Tob and I exchanged glances, feeling guilty in our seats, and offered our seats to two older ladies. “No, no, no” they repeated, as they took the seats and commented our on good manners. They wanted to know where we were from; they were from Valencia. They commented on how handsome Tob was; one woman pointed to her husband and suggested we swap men for the day, and they all cackled hysterically. The women then broke out in song, a traditional song from Valencia, and pantomimed dance moves in the crowded car. At that moment I saw my role model for aging. As we exited, we exchanged air kisses and wished each other happy trails.

The path was narrow and alternated between warm sunny patches and shady bits. The climb was gradual until the end, where hundreds of stairs met us. After catching my breath at the top, I looked around. And was speechless. There, below us, laid the countryside, stretching in one direction to the sea, the other to the Pyrenees Mountains. Moments later, two Spanish men arrived, with their dog, Mike. They showed us their town, at the base of the mountain. They were currently in between jobs, and came to Montserrat almost every day to run to this peak. They told us about a restaurant that had been at the top of the mountain, but was swept away during a flood 20 years ago (no one was hurt) as we shared our lunches. Laughing with each other, the fruit was sweeter, the Serrano ham saltier, the cheese creamier. As they prepared to run back down the mountain, we exchanged pleasantries and kisses on cheeks. I was overwhelmed by being in a country that loves life.

Miro and Me
I ran into the museum, eager to escape the oncoming storm. I was so excited about visiting this museum. Joan Miro is one of my favorite artists – the colors, the simplicity, the lines, the vibrancy – each piece astounds me. As I started walking through the galleries, listening to my audio guide explain the history of each painting, I realized I was the only visitor. Thinking maybe I had made a mistake and had less time than I thought, I asked one of the few guards what time the museum closed. No, I still had another couple of hours. I wandered from gallery to gallery, peering close at the red, the yellow, the blues, then slowly backing away, watching each masterpiece transform. In each gallery, I was the only person, even the guards were nowhere to be seen. I couldn’t believe my fortune. Miro and me, all alone.

“May I take care of you?”
Oh, magic. Here was a charming Spanish waiter, asking if he could choose my food for me. See, I love eating. I just don’t like making choices. There’s the anxiety of choosing something on the menu, and it not living up to my expectations, and what if I should have chosen the other item… To have someone just bring me food – oh, heaven.

I told him I’m allergic to bell peppers and he whisked away, returning with a lovely chilled bottle of crisp white wine and a small plate of delicious, melt in your mouth mussels, in a just slightly salty broth. He laughed as I mm’ed and ah’ed as I ate each one. All that remained in front of me was a pile of shells when he told me I was not finished. Not sure I understood him (I think I’m much more fluent in Spanish than I actually am), he continued. “Senora, use your teeth to get the rest” and he showed me how to scrape the shells to get every last remnant. Delicious food and I can use my fingers?

What followed next were generous portions of lightly fried seafood – shrimp, calamari, sardines, small fish — which I shared with the Portuguese man sitting next to me, also dining alone. He offered me his platter of fried artichokes. We continued to chit chat as more platters arrived. The last was even more delicious than the prior platters. It had warm cheese on top and the solid mass on my fork melted in my mouth, no distinguishable flavor except pure happiness.

I ducked into the Camper shoe store just as the rain was beginning to fall. Leisurely, I wandered around, imagining each of the funky shoes upon my feet – heaven! I lifted a pair of black high heels, intending to try them on, and realized I didn’t know my European size. I held the floor sample to my foot; at a 38, it was considerably smaller than my foot. I asked the salesman if he spoke English. “A little,” he replied. I told him I spoke a little Spanish. “Let’s speak in Spanish, then,” he suggested with a smile.

I started. “I’d like to try on two pairs of shoes, but I don’t know my size. Maybe I’m a 44?” At that, he burst out laughing. “44 is a man’s size! It is huge!” I laughed and lifted a foot. “Pero mis pies son grandes!” For a split second, I wondered whether I told him my feet were huge, or my stones were huge. Pies? Piedras? Either way, he seemed to understand. Or at least humor me. Still laughing, he asked me what size I wear in the US. I told him 8 ½ or 9. He suggested I try a 38, the sample in my hand. I compared the shoe to my foot and told him it was way too small. Still laughing, he brought me a 39 and 40. “You do not need a 44,” he said. Sure enough, I walked out with a pair of 40s and happy.

As I entered my room in Jo’burg, I found this note:

Dear Valued Guest,

We are currently experiencing the effect of the blasting from the Gautrain project.

We apologise for this inconvenience, and hope that it will not detract from what we presume is an otherwise comfortable stay.

Just as I finished reading, I felt the building shake. Just in time information…