Toes on the Taj

This image is what I will remember most from the Taj Mahal:
Does it embody the Taj’s greatness, its painstakingly detailed flowered mosaics, its gasping onlookers, and its intended purpose – a tomb for the second wife of Shah Jahan who died while giving birth to their fourteenth child? Does it show what Rudyard Kipling called “the embodiment of all things pure”?

Absolutely not. What it does represent, though, is my own personal moment with the Taj, a few fleeting minutes where the separation between it and me was minimal.

I arrived in Agra via train on Wednesday morning. Not knowing what to expect of the two-hour journey from Delhi, I giggled when all of the passengers were given a single tiny rose. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with it, but nonetheless I smiled as I weaved its stem between the straps on my dirty, patched backpack. It was a Rolls Royce hood ornament on a Chevy Nova.

Such a graceful nicety, though, was in stark contrast to the city of Agra itself. Besieged with rickshaw drivers, children, “guides”, restaurant owners, there was a constant hum of Hello, sir! Where are you going? Helloooo! Sir, go to Baby Taj? Cheap price. Hello, sir! Money. Sir, HELLOOOOOOO. Postcard? Necklace for your girlfriend? Hello, sir! Where you staying? Change money? What’s your good name? Hi, sir! You need guide to see everything. HELLLOOOOOOO. It was relentless and I – normally used to a certain level of chaos – became overwhelmed. Maybe I would have been fine if it had only been the perpetual pestering, but since stimulating only one or two of your senses is never enough, the occasional child would pull at my arm and some putrid combination of food, urine, and animal waste would snake its way up to my nostrils. Watching a couple literally scoop up cow manure with their bare hands – presumably to fertilize their meager crops – forced me to turn away. I sought refuge in the Agra Fort and the Jama Masjid, two red sandstone structures saved from sensory overload.

As dusk fell, I found myself in the company of three lovely Parisian women at a rooftop restaurant directly south of the Taj. As we snapped endless photos and watched monkeys jump from roof to roof, I realized I was anxious. Impatient. Nervous. This Taj view from afar was a taste. It was foreplay. Fun, intriguing, but not the main course, right? It was that hint of skin you can see when a sari blows to the side in the wind.

And then Thursday morning came. 6:00am. Wow.

There are a few things that have made me cry tears of amazement just upon seeing them for the first time. Isaac and Sydney, my nephew and niece. The Iguaçu Falls. The Perito Moreno Glacier. And now – the Taj Mahal. It is unequivocally the most beautiful piece of architecture to grace this spinning rock we inhabit.

Why does it take a monument of this magnitude and beauty to cause me to stop and reflect? Breathe? Think? Feel? One of the books I’m currently reading is called How Proust Can Change Your Life. Basically, it’s for people like me who aren’t smart enough – or patient enough – to read Proust. The author gives us the gist of Proust’s one-and-a-quarter million word saga, In Search of Lost Time, while simultaneously applying it to our current lives. Apparently, Proust tells us that we must suffer intelligently. That is, we must use the less than ideal moments as a foundation for appreciating the more idyllic. We cannot appreciate sleep until we experience insomnia. We cannot appreciate the spring until we experience winter. We cannot appreciate the silence without experiencing chaos.

Okay – I’m starting to get it, India. You’re smart. You have provided me with the necessary sensory overload so that I may then appreciate the serene. Proust was right, then. I must suffer wisely – and my meanderings are forcing me to realize this.

Like other Muslim monuments or mosques, you must take your shoes off before entering. However, perhaps in a move to appease Western tourists, you also have the option of putting on these ridiculous paper slippers over your shoes. I mean, as if the cargo shorts and tank tops didn’t make the Gringos stand out enough, now they look like they’re human Swiffers. I declined the pippers, as I started to refer to them, and slid my sandals into my bag. As I slowly shuffled across the smooth marble, my toes spread out like roots, feeling every groove and every tiny puddle from the previous day’s rain. There was no separation between me and the stone, a blissfully intoxicating feeling. My jaw, typically clenched and rigid, relaxed. My spine straightened. I sat down, no longer restricting contact to just my toes, and my thoughts became even quieter. Finally, I lied down, prostrate, in total awe of human capability. I suppose this is what people talk about when they refer to spiritual moments.

And that’s where the photo comes in. A quick snapshot of my view before I sat back up.

As I finally left, I couldn’t help but appreciate the juxtapositions of the Taj. It’s withheld nearly 400 years of monsoons and regime changes, but still begs us to examine its intricate marble inlays. Women wearing orange, turquoise, and fuchsia saris, red bindis on their dark skin, float past the stark white marble forcing your eyes to decide where to focus. Just like the rest of India, you’re presented with worlds that don’t seem to fit, but magically and perfectly interlock.

Visions from a day

So, my email account was hacked; thus, the temporary suspension. However, "Meanderings of a Baker" is back up and running. I wrote this a couple days ago.

What Delhi showed me in a single day…

1. A Bollywood film: I Hate Luv Storys. After accepting the fact that no red pen would have enough ink to correct the orthographical errors on all the advertisements, I walked into the theater ready to be wowed. This was, admittedly, a tall order considering I don’t speak Hindi and could potentially have not the slightest clue what the hell was going on. Luckily for me, it was a rather formulaic romantic comedy, one which undoubtedly would star Katherine Heigl or the like had it been filmed in the US. What made it completely enjoyable, though, was what makes every Bollywood movie deliciously campy and fun: choreographed musical numbers. I mean, 29 Dresses? Lame. 29 Dresses with unapologetic song and dance? That would be stunning. Why hasn’t Hollywood caught on to what Bollywood is peddling?

2. Boys being boys. No matter the country, no matter the culture, no matter the sport, boys will get up before school to play sports. Whether it’s Jonas and Kelith and a basketball at UCHS at 6:00am or a group of teens in unkempt uniforms playing cricket in the shadow of India Gate, boys will always find a way to release that energy. As a teacher, I say THANK GOD. Maybe you’ll stop being so crazy in my classroom if you run around for a while.

3. Khursheed’s apartment. After ascending an unlit staircase and almost tripping over a baby goat in the hallway – which, by the way, had a bright orange stripe painted down its back – I found myself barefooted, cross-legged, and warmly welcomed by Khursheed and his family. Calling it modest would be a stretch, but these tiny rooms which housed SEVEN people felt as warm and comfortable as my own house. It was by far one of the most profound experiences abroad I’ve ever had. Calling myself lucky to have experienced it would be an understatement.



4. Money being blessed. Back story: Despite the heat and the humidity that wraps its arms around you in a giant sweaty hug, shorts don’t really cut it in Delhi. Feeling snazzy in my linen shorts, I went out one afternoon and quickly felt like I was walking around naked, which despite my actions in a certain clothing optional bike ride, isn’t typically how I roll. So, in an attempt to draw the least amount of attention possible – not always shockingly easy as a 6’2” lanky white boy with a shaved head – I bought another pair of pants from a market for 200 rupees (about $4.50). Closing his eyes, the shopkeeper’s hands danced momentarily, the bills slightly wavering with the movement. “You’re my first sale of the day,” he said, gently touching my arm.



5. A daytime monsoon. I saw headlines about monsoons on the newsstands, hotels offer monsoon season discounts, everyone said I was crazy for going during the monsoons, yadda yadda yadda. Lots o’ monsoon talk. Sure, it rained early in the morning the day I got here. Sure there was some rain while I slept. But – then one came during the day. And, well, I get it now. WOW. It’s the sort of rain that doesn’t really have a direction. It’s almost like MC Escher and Mother Nature are in cahoots, and just like stairways that twist and jut from every angle, water pelts you no matter where you are. Plus side to the storm? A lovely chat with an old man as we hid under a hotel overhang. From the need to educate the whole child to the importance of yoga, we covered a lot in those 20 minutes. My favorite quote: “Our lives are minimized with every second that passes.” Preach on.

6. A dead man on the street. There he was - in the middle of the street, in the middle of the monsoon, rickshaws maneuvering around him like he was a pothole. There’s this need to almost disconnect yourself from reality while you’re here – similar, I suppose, to being a doctor constantly dealing with tragedy. You can’t let the sight of every disparity, every heartbreak stop you or you wouldn’t be able to move three inches. But – this hit me. Hard.

It seems somewhat insensitive, I suppose, to start a posting musing about RomComs and choreography and end with someone’s seemingly unnoticed death; yet, it parallels Delhi perfectly. A Jaguar dealership next to a garbage repository populated by food-seekers. The Delhi Stock exchange behind a filled sidewalk of sleeping men and women.

What an introduction it has been, Delhi. Thank you.

Now, off to see that Taj Mahal I’ve been hearing so much about.

Reverting to student behavior

Every comment I heard about Delhi is absolutely true… and then some. It’s a total assault on every one of your senses. By no means is this a bad thing. I suppose such constant stimulation is a pleasant reminder that you are alive. You really are seeing/hearing/touching/tasting/smelling whatever that is and I’d wager to say you won’t see/hear/touch/taste/smell that again. At the very least, not at the same time. For instance, while sitting at Karim’s restaurant eating Chicken Jahangiri and smelling the spices from the kitchen (and occasionally a few of the less desirable odors inherent to the stunning poverty found around the corner), my eyes kept floating back to the brilliant yellow of a woman’s sari while a small boy was trepidatiously reaching out to shake my hand at the request of his father. And somewhere – an auditory cherry on the top of the sensory sundae – a man’s singing bitterly fought with the cacophony of horns to stay alive.

That was a single moment, a molecule in the ocean of daily experiences in Delhi.

I’m still trying to process the rest of the day, but my meanderings with Khursheed around Old Delhi were singular, if not enlightening. After visiting the perplexingly beautiful Jama Masjid – the largest mosque in India – I took a bike rickshaw to Fatehpuri Masjid, a decidedly less showy, but more peaceful mosque populated only by a handful of soul-searchers clustered in small groups, some washing their feet in faucets lining one side of the courtyard. It was one of the most serene moments I’ve had in months when suddenly a young man approached.
“Hello, sir. Where are you from?”

I was immediately hesitant. Suspicious. Doubtful. “New York,” I replied with a half smile, fully expecting an offer to show me “all the tourist sites of Delhi at a very good price. Very good price.”

But one never came.

In a rather circuitous fashion we strolled around the courtyard, finally perching on the platform where prayers are led five times a day. Rather fitting for the setting, we talked religion, yet our conversation also leapt from family to love to work to cultural harmony. We left Fatehpuri Masjid and Khursheed led me around the labyrinth of tiny alleys and passageways which had been completely invisible to me moments before.

As we ducked under tiny arches and through minute gates, stepping over sleeping goats and passing outdoor barbers, I started to feel anxious. Where is he taking me? How do I get out of here? Where’s the exit to a main street? My anxiety reached its pinnacle when we were deep into an Afghani region of the maze. Completely a product of American media and episodes of 24, I was nervous. Our military is at war in Afghanistan. He knows I’m American. He knows I live in New York. He knows I was born a Christian. Am I the epitome of what is demonized amongst radical circles?

My out? Some silly story about needing to be back to the hotel. His reason for showing me that part of the city? An Afghani restaurant with good food.

How ludicrous and horribly disturbing that I cannot help but have these ridiculous thoughts when here is a genuinely kind soul who just wants to chat and to share some of his favorite aspects of living in Delhi. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that Kursheed and I are strikingly similar.
1. We’re both 29. Neither of us is frightened to turn 30, but it does cause our heart to skip a beat every now then.
2. We’re both single but hopeful. While I explained that being 29 and single isn’t that much of a rarity anymore in the States, he explained that he’s definitely the outlier. In his community, he explained, marriage typically falls between the ages of 16 and 25.
3. We’ve both been in love. Kursheed – once. The woman left him for someone else. Me – twice. The first was a victim of bad timing and my own immaturity and naïveté. The second ended when two souls realized they were not concentric circles, but rather spheres bouncing on different planes.
4. We’ve both identified our career paths and are working towards greater success. He, a tailor, looks up design houses around the world and sends unsolicited emails offering his services. I, a teacher, immerse myself in the complexities of our school systems with the hope of imparting some tiny change.

While it’s hard for one person to be solely responsible for another’s success or downfall, I thought I’d do whatever I could to assist Khursheed. So, I’m going to call him tomorrow to order a few shirts and pants and will gladly recommend him to anyone who wants to listen. Admittedly, this is not some monumental change, but it’s a tiny step – or rather, a tiny shuffle – in the right direction.

How will he help me? He already has. I realized my own biases today and saw that – despite what the news may lead us to believe – there are far more good people out there than we recognize. Today, I, the educator, was Khursheed’s student.

Dining on Rudolph and berries.

In this journey to the other side of the globe, I found myself with a 12 hour layover in Helsinki. (That’s in Finland, in case you’re wondering. Finland is in Europe. Up there by Sweden. And Russia.) Now – if you’re anything like me, you (sadly?) have never really thought about Finland. I honestly think the only time the word “Helsinki” ever crossed my lips was when I was playing “Where in the World is Carmen Santiago?” circa 1993. Her hijnx always seemed to bring her here.

So, after an eight hour flight with about an hour of sleep I marched out of the airport searching for a bus to take me to the city. Mission: accomplished.

Initial thoughts:

1. Shit. I don’t speak Finnish. And that sign has some really long words.
2. Wow, is it green here. The 25 minute ride from the airport felt like a tour through northern Wisconsin except that everyone was thin, blonde and blue-eyed. And speaking Finnish.
3. This capital city is like no other I’ve seen. It borders on bucolic. And they speak Finnish.

About that third point, this is a major European city – but why does it feel so serene? Kind? Pleasantly subdued? I guess that sort of begs the question – is this considered urban? It’s definitely not suburban, far from rural. Is it urban lite? Diet urban? Does it matter? Probably not.

Despite the differences between major cities around the world, there are certain experiences where we can always find common ground. There will always be sports fanatics. There will always be public transportation (I’m assuming this is true…). There will always be people (ahem… me) who show up bright eyed and looking for some personal renaissance. And – what makes me the happiest – there will always be outdoor food markets. From Wylie Dufresne checking out produce at Union Square like they’re match.com profiles (“Hmm. On paper you’re exactly what I need, but you just look a little wilted.”) to the women who I’ll undoubtedly see at the Old Delhi spice markets tomorrow, we all gather in a public place to prepare for one of the greatest human experiences: shared meals.

Today was no exception. I found myself spending hours perusing aisle after aisle of raspberries, giant beans, brilliantly colored yellow mushrooms, cured salmon, fried mackerel, and pastries that defy Weight Watchers points. I even had a reindeer sandwich. Yes, Mr. Claus. Slice up Rudy and put him on a baguette. A wee bit gamey but delicious, nonetheless. Dessert was absolutely divine: a pint of the best strawberries I’ve ever tasted. Apparently, it’s the 20 hours of sunlight Helsinki receives in the summer that cause these little nuggets to stain your hands with their blood-red juice and surprise you with how sweet they are without being saccharine.

The best part of lunch, though? It was a shared experience. I sat side-by-side with hundreds (thousands?) of other market-goers and we had a moment together. A kid laughed at me when he saw how covered I’d become in strawberry juice. I shared an anticipatory gaze with a woman as we both ordered blueberry tarts and were waiting for them to arrive to our tables. A waitress and I laughed as she approached me speaking in Finnish and I looked like a deer in headlights (who then later ended up between two pieces of bread). No one ever said traveling by yourself had to be a solitary affair.

Here we go.

It never fails: I always start with good intentions. I cannot begin to count the number of times I've said, "Self, you need to document this experience." I've marched to the bookstore, picked up some new journal (perhaps with a subtle travel motif), and hopped on the plane. I diligently recorded my thoughts.

For the first two days.

And now I have a stack of journals with a few run on sentences and then page after stark white page of nothingness. It's as if Bob Ross stopped after that first diagonal navy stripe but never got to the happy trees.

Pictures are great. Tchotchkes are great. But - do they really capture fleeting thoughts and ephemeral ponderings? Perhaps not. So, maybe this is my attempt at really - I mean, REALLY - documenting what I'm seeing, what I'm feeling. By writing this in a blog, I'm tricking myself into believing I have an "audience." Clearly, it's never worked to write simply to myself, so maybe if I type thinking that there's someone on the other end - someone who will hold me accountable - then maybe I'll finish what it is I'm attempting to start.

So, why India? Honestly, I'm not quite sure. There is this draw to the exotic, of course, but I also feel like I'm looking for something that I've never quite found anywhere else. Here's a bigger question: What is that "something"? Again, not sure. Awe and admiration of the human spirit? Some monumental self-discovery? Clarity? A make-out session? Maybe all of the above? We all know I've been lacking the latter, but I digress...

I'm going into this trip with my senses, my mind, my heart completely open. What happens, happens. What I see, I see. What I eat, I eat. Where I end up, I end up. That being said, though, I have a short list of things I definitely want to do. Here goes:

1. Ride an elephant. The last time this happened I was probably about six and at the Milwaukee County Zoo. Decked out in a green t-shirt, I found myself waiting in line next to a pile of hay... which was the same green hue. My pacaderm pal wrapped his trunk around me and tried to pick me up. Needless to say, I haven't packed any green shirts.
2. Attend an Indian wedding. Admittedly, this is a stretch, but my friend Billy read an article in GQ ("Monsoon Wedding Crashers", June 2010) which makes me think this is a possibility.
3. Go to a Bollywood premiere. It'd be even better if I went as someone's date.
4. Eat. Eat. Eat.
5. Come back a changed person. I know this statement is bound to evoke some "Eat. Pray. Love" mockery, but please - I ain't no Julia Roberts.

That being said, let's start packing.

No green shirts, though.