"Coffee Wars" in the Bay Citizen

December 15, 2010

From my flu-sick-bed, I sat--okay, laid down--for an interview with Thalia Gigerenzer of The Bay Citizen, a very cool and objective BA news source. She wanted to know about The Coffee Wars and how much it holds a mirror up to SF coffee culture. I was not at the top of my game, but my answers were surprisingly coherent, if a bit rambling. I'm a rambler. Read the article here. The article, in turn, seems to be touching off another twitter-eddy (tweddy?) of activity about the video, which I hope leads to more YouTube views etc. It's pushing 65,000 views as of this writing!

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oMqutKBS5iE]

Unfortunately, I wasn't lucid enough to plug my latest KML video, Feed The Lobster: Costumes, which could use more views, as we made it to generate donations to KML itself. See that vid here.

Thanks to Thalia and Queena Kim for their interest and for the coverage!

Feed The Lobster.

December 10, 2010

Folks, my latest video for Killing My Lobster is up and I'm proud as hell of it. It's an ad for, what else, KML. They're a non-profit, after all, and they provide a valuable service for the Bay Area and beyond: make people laugh. If you're down to donate a couple of bucks, please do.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LVnbOS9RmvI]

Thanks to the fine folks at Goodby, Silverstein & Partners, who loaned us their ArtWorks studio space, and GSP's Eric Herron, who helped us out with equipment, elbow grease, expertise, and good humor.

Directed by me, co-written and co-produced by my buddy Miriam Wild-Smith, and costumed, acted, and edited with love by a plethora of Lobsters. Enjoy!

"Coffee Wars" boils over!

October 7, 2010

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oMqutKBS5iE&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&version=3] I've spent a sizable chunk of my spare time this past year writing and teaching for Killing My Lobster, the Second City of San Francisco. And while I feel like I spent the first few months making my bones, earning the respect of my talented co-writers and our equally gifted actors and directors, I like to think I've gone on to acquit myself over this year's shows.

The latest, and possibly most satisfying, example of this is the film I wrote and produced for Killing My Lobster Holds the Mayo, their final show of the year. The film is called The Coffee Wars and it's a Ken Burns parody, showcasing the rivalry between two of the best-known (and my favorite) artisan coffee brands in town.

It's blown up beyond all (well, my) expectations thus far, garnering over ~~8,000~~14,000 hits in ~~less than~~ three days, and crazy amounts of Twitter chatter. It's even attracted a hater or two, which is always a sure sign of online heat.

Kudos to director Rand Courtney, actors Fred Wickham and Sarah Mitchell, and the rest of the superb cast, crew, and musicians who made this film such a joy to make and, I hope, to watch. With apologies to Joan Baez.

The wet and the dead: India day 30 (Haridwar) Part 2

January 26, 2009

Here in Haridwar, at the source of the Ganges river, people go to the ghats here to purify themselves in the waters. But every night thousands come here to honor their dead. So, just before sunset, we set out to the river Ghats, for the sunset ceremony.

When we got there, people were sitting on the steps and platforms for probably a solid half-kilometer of the river, most of them purchasing or already holding small floats consisting of leaves, flower petals, and a small candle. We snuggled in on the steps among the mourners. Across the Ghat from us, a family poured ashes into the river from a plastic shopping bag, then bathed themselves in the water, openly weeping.

Occasionally someone in a uniform would shout orders at the crowds, in a tone that seemed more explanatory than harsh. I’m pretty sure he was telling all of us how the ceremony would go, what to do, and when. Occasionally he would reach his hand into the water and splash everybody, making him seem like some sort of jovial univormed tour guide. Natacha freaked out at having the water splashed on her, and I wasn’t too happy about it either. As it turns out, since it’s the source of the ganges, it’s fairly clean and extremely cold.

The sun set and the ceremony began. A number of people had jumped the gun earlier, but once the sky darkened, thousands of little floats, each lit by a single candle, made their way down the Ganges, each one a remembrance of a dead loved one.

Later in the ceremony, a main stage area had some bona fide fire rituals, using torches and loud chanting. That was something to see.

I took dozens of pictures of this very beautiful (if frenetic) ceremony.

Natacha bought these crazy handbags made from unused sheets of product wrapping—M & Ms, Friskies, etc.

Walking along the ghats after the ceremony was just as nuts, if not more so because everyone was on the move. It felt like walking on the bordwalk of a beachside holiday town…or rather, four holiday towns on top of one another. So much to see!

There were people swimming in the cold, strong-current Ganges, changing in and out of swimsuits in tents along the ghats. At night! People walking from temple to souvenir stall to restaurant to temple again. Food stalls. Red-powder stalls. It was nuts, and a little overwhelming.

That night we ate dinner at the same place we had lunch—it was a ways away from the ghats and as such nice and quiet.

But for some reason, a horn & drum band—not the one we saw earlier, I don’t think—decided to start playing across the street from the restaurant. With a PA and their own lighting, no less!

Nuts. But fascinating.

Day of the dead (and the just sleepy): India Day 30 (Haridwar) Part 1

January 22, 2009

Despite the early wake-up and extensive traveling, this was another tentpole day of the trip. The evening river ritual in Haridwar is an event that rivals that of Varanassi, without the twelve-hour train trip (or, at this time of year, the murderous heat). It was recommended to us by a friend of a friend, and we said what the hell. The train up was relatively uneventful. We chose the higher-class section this time, thank you, and got soft seats and food & water served to us. While waiting for the bathroom, I struck up a conversation with an old man in spotless white robes. He had one of those crazy-eyes old-men faces, and took great pains to tell me that Barak Obama is a muslim, and that once elected would unleash his secret muslim agenda on the world.

The guy was a classic old-school Hindu; he meant well, but had a head full of right-wing propaganda. He freaked me out enough that I quickly excused myself and hightailed it back to my seat.

So: an early train out of Delhi, dropping us off into an unfamiliar city at (as usual) the hottest time of day. For us, this was typical travel.

We looked for an i-café in the guide book, to discover that it had gone under. We searched for a tourist office, that was closed B/C it was Sunday. After walking aimlessly for an hour or more (and yes, snapping at each other b/c of the heat), Natacha & I did the right thing and tucked into an A/c restaurant with great food, and more important, A/c.

Haridwar is a true Indian tourist town. i.e. it’s all Indian tourists and no gringos. The town is the alleged source of the Ganges. There are three rivers that merge at Haridwar, becoming the Ganges, making this a holy place. The streets were hot and busy, and every so often an open truck with a marching band on it or an impromptou parade would come down the main street, banners, etc. Something religious, but I couldn’t guess what. Nuts.

And here’s something that fascinates me about India. Religion is intermingled with society in curious ways. In the case of Haridwar, it’s mixed with tourism. It’s one of the holiest places in India, but it’s like a holiday town: hotels everywhere, souvenir shops for days, and a hilltop temple surrounded by snack bars. Oh, and served by a cable sky-tram like something out of a ski lodge.

I guess it’s not that different from Mormons visiting Salt Lake City, or Catholics visiting the Vatican. I myself have a souvenir bottle opener with the Pope John Paul II’s face on it. I call it “The Popener.”

Of course, the Vatican doesn't have a creepy guy in a turban stick a live python in your face and say, "Picture!" Does it?

After finding a cheap room (we were only staying one night, after all), we set out on the town, which really was this crazy mix of holy city/tourist town. We decided to take the cable car up to the holy temple, which was absolutely packed. Maybe because it was a Sunday? Who knows. The Temple was surrounded with little shops that sold a variety of things from flowers and other temple offerings to jewelry and ice cream to…one other thing I’ll mention in a sec.

At the temple, I heard someone calling out to me—it was spotted crazy old hindu man from the train. He was in fact with his family, but he’d scared me enough on the train that I exchanged a few words with him and then went on my way.

The temple was shoulder-to-shoulder, as we inched along the passageways, lit incense, had sandalwood paint touched to our foreheads, etc. I didn’t receive the paint because most people assumed the little white patch on my forehead was a holy marking (it was cream to heal the cut on my forehead).

The temple was beautiful, if cramped, and it felt weird that there were so many people inside it, lining up to get in, lingering around it, buying souvenir statuettes next to it.

But then, Natacha and I found this photo booth service thing.

You know those cheesy sepia tone photos you can take that make you look like y ou’re in the old west, or the industrial revolution? This hill temple had a “service” where they took your picture dressed up in traditional India costume. Bejewled robes, headpieces, even a sword. I talked Natacha into having ours taken. It came out superbly and is our holiday card this year.

There were sample pictures where couple would have the sword, and the man would have it against the wife’s throat. That didn’t suit me at all…but I REALLY wanted the sword. So when we posed, we held the sword together. I think she held the hilt and I held the scabbard.

We then waited in a VERY long line to take the tram back down the hill, and who should we end up in line with but crazy old guy and his family.

It turns out that he’s not “crazy” old guy after all. He was actually a very sweet man who brings takes his family up from Delhi to Haridwar once a year for a day-long pilgrimage. They bathe in the river’s holy waters, visit the temple, and go back to Delhi the same day.

He even introduced us to his brother, and his adorable grandkids. He was so proud that one of them was acting in an upcoming school play, and was a pretty good hand with English. While waiting in line for the tram wasn’t that pleasant, it was very nice to spend some time getting to know this family.

I also took the best close-up picture of a monkey I will ever get. It didn’t even occur to me that it could’ve possibly reached through the fence & ripped my face off.

From hot to f@#%ing HOTTER: India Day 29 (Kochin to Delhi)

January 19, 2009

Traveling in India in the second-hottest month of the year, we lamented the weather many times during our travels. But here we were, in the south of india, i.e., India, only hotter.

We liked Cochi as a town, liked the time we spent in Kerala. I mean, how could you not—Varkala, the backwaters, the 400 year old synagogue? It was the most humane, least mercenary time we’ve had so far in the country. But the heat was just too much. We had to leave.

We did take a walk around the town citadel, first, and saw parts of the town where I wished we could’ve spent more time in: The coast, with those huge Chinese fishing nets (we actually got to see those in action and they were impressive. Like a Gilligan’s island trap, only eight times bigger and they worked. We saw the area church (another centuries-old building), did a teeny bit more shopping, and piled into a cab.

The cab to the airport was about 90 minutes longer than we’d expected. Our driver, as it turns out, also fancied himself a psychic. He foresaw great career success for Natacha in the future—interesting since she’s going back to school for the next few years. I don’t think he predicted anything for me.

He certainly didn’t predict the hour or so of torrential rainstorms that started just as we entered the airport. Nor did he predict the dozens of soldiers that filled the airport lobby, after which they escorted out two guys in coveralls, lingered around a while longer, and left. But I imagine he could’ve predicted our plane would take off late. Hell, I could've predicted that. This is India, after all.

We got into Delhi around 8 PM, at which time the temperature was 40 degrees Celsius. At 8 PM. Fortunately, we’d reserved an AC room in a decent place. Slept with the intent to get up crazy early for a train north, to Haridwar.

India.

In which we find religion (our own): India Day 28 (Kochin)

December 3, 2008

Photos of the Kochi paradesi synagogue interior courtesy of Wouter Hagens via Wikipedia Commons. We weren't allowed to take photos in the synagogue.

After a fun day of shopping, chatting, and exploring, we took a crack at going to a 400-year old synagogue for Shabbat. It was closed during the day b/c of Passover, but we were told that it might be open for the Friday service. Worth a shot.

Once there, a Keralan man told us that there would be a service, but that it would be a short one, as it was Passover weekend and there weren’t enough men around that weekend for a minion (people were visiting their families and whatnot). I think that man might have been a shabbas-goy or something.

Eventually, a thin little old man in his 70s (80s?) in huge glasses and a kippah showed up. He looked like a cross between an Indian Don Ameche and my Grandpa Ned. He spoke to the Shabbas-goy in Hindi, then asked us if we wanted to come in for Shabbat. We eagerly nodded yes.

He led us in, and we removed our shoes, even though he said we didn’t have to.

The synagogue was beautiful, oozing 400 years of history from every wooden pew, every mosaic’d tile, from each ornate chandelier and each of the hundreds of colored blown-glass globes hanging from the ceiling.

It was smallish for a synagogue—maybe the size of two winnebagos side-by-side, with maybe a dozen pews in the back, a half-dozen along one side, and a few long benches along the other side. The walls, the ceiling, the podium—everything was touched by a love for this place and its history. Multiple chandeliers hung down, as did the hundreds of blown-glass bubbles (sea-glass?) and other ornaments

The center podium was similarly ornate. The floor was bare. A few stacks of siddurim lay next to the center podium. The three of us were the only people in the synagogue.

The old man motioned for Natacha to sit on the women’s; side, and bade me sit next to him on the men’s side. He had decent English, with an accent that was part Indian, part almost Yiddish. I wish I knew the man’s history, but I didn’t want to pry.

He had huge thick glasses. I imagined him to be a long-lived merchant in the area. I took a prayer book and sat in the back pew next to him.

We talked for a while, mostly me answering questions about where I was from and about American politics. I so wanted to ask him about himself, his life in India, but I was a guest in a revered place, and I didn’t feel it was my place.

A heavyset man in a sarong and kippah showed up and spoke to the old man in Hindi, glancing at me briefly. They chatted for a bit, then in accented English, he asked me where I grew up. I told him, “Los Angeles. California.” He smirked and said, “Los Angeles. California. Like I don’t know where Los Angeles is.” He would tease me about that several times over the course of the evening. Turns out the guy was a teacher from Cleveland, dividing his time between India and Israel (which would account for the accent).

He then hammered me with questions about where I was from, my religious background, my job, all in that asserting-status sort of way that I find Israelis do. He asked me where I spent Passover, and criticized me for not finding somewhere to spend Passover in India.” The Internet,” he said. “look up India and Passover,” as if it was as easy as that. Hell, maybe it was.

Soon, we all settled down and the men started praying. I’d read what I could from the siddur, and look around this beautiful space, at the blown-glass spheres in the ceiling…

…and this feeling came over me. Like I belonged, in a way I don’t anywhere else. The fact that here I was, half-way around the world, and these people took me in; and that together we enacted thousand-year-old rituals together, ones we all KNEW…filled me with such a sense of connection, of belonging, that I got choked up afterwards.

II felt so grateful to be there, to be accepted. Particularly in a country where we’re so out of place.

At the end of the service, the old man had the caretaker guy open up the arc, and we got to see and touch the four Torahs, each with a breast plate that was one of the first things that the Jews brought to Cochin, centuries ago.

We did the Kiddush over the wine at the center podium, then separated as the regulars went home or went visiting. It was one of the most genuinely moving experiences I’ve had in this country. Or ever.

The Man From Viagra: India day 28 (Kochi)

November 21, 2008

One of the most consistent irritants when traveling abroad is this: people are constantly asking you where you’re from. Every tout and huckster. Every schoolkid who knows three words of English. Every employee at every store. Every rickshaw driver. Without fail. I think part of it is to get your measure, and determine how much money you might have. After a while, it gets invasive and unpleasant.

The same thing happened to me when I traveled through Indonesia years ago. After a while, I gave joke answers. My favorite was “Disneyland,” but the locals just thought I’d said “New Zealand” so it didn’t work.

But upon entering Kerala, I made up another fake country name: “Viagra.” Natacha didn’t want me to do it. But I figured if I was going to get the same annoying question thirty times a day, I should have a little fun with it.

The first time I tried it was in the spice shop. The guys there barely missed a beat, looked at each other with a little confusion, and said, “That is a drug, yes?”

Busted.

Then they laughed. So not only did it backfire, but I basically told them I came from an ED drug.

But it sure felt better than saying “USA” for the four hundredth time.

To Jew Town and back: India Day 28 (Kochin/Erkulam)

November 14, 2008

We didn’t love Kochi on a whole (which I blame largely on the very-hot time of year), but this day in particular was one of the most amazing times we spent in India.

The first place we hit in the morning—by my request--was Kochi’s famous “Jew town.”

Cochin was home to a large Jewish population centuries ago, and that part of town still carried the moniker. We tried to enter the 400-year –old synagogue, but were told that it was closed for the Passover holiday. We did take a look at the spice market—Jew town was the center of Kochi’s spice trade—and the nearby Jewish cemetery.

But then moved on to do something, in turn, that Natacha wanted to do: shop.

For that, we took a ferry to Erkulam, the “real city” to Cochin’s “old town.” Natacha was looking for some of Kerala’s famous spices, and maybe a sari.

To get out of the heat, we took a long break at the Bubble Café, which turned out to be a restaurant in one of Erkulam’s fanciest hotels. It was so fancy, it not only had a ceiling-wide skylight, it had a sprinkler system constantly pouring water on it, to supplement the AC so it wasn’t like eating lunch in a greenhouse. We ordered a coffee and a coconut juice and nursed them.

Our next table consisted of a half-dozen thirtysomething Indians who worked in England but came to Kochi for holiday. We had a great time talking to them, mostly about Obama and Clinton (whom at this point were still going at it hammer-and-tongs), and about Bush and the sorry state of the US government.

They teased us about all the corruption in our government, so at one point I said, “sure—because India wouldn’t know anything about a corrupt government.” They laughed and one of them said, sure, of course India has an incredibly corrupt government, “but with us, it’s expected. For you, it’s a surprise.”

Natch asked ‘em where would be a good place to buy gold jewelry; they suggested Bima’s. About which more later.

First we had lunch at Bimbi’s, a sort of restaurant/bakery chain for Dosas, with a long dessert counter. We took our sweet tooths for a stroll and sampled a dozen desserts, finding a few that interested us. Funny how Indian desserts are so colorful, but most of them taste pretty much the same.

After that, it was off to Erkulam’s own Jew Street, home to shops, shops and more shops: kitchen appliances, clothing, and of course spices, spices, and more spices—Kerala’s specialty.

Natacha picked a place and came out with several types of cardamom pods and peppercorns, the former of which I look forward to filtering into my coffee when we get home.

We also looked for and found Bima’s, for gold jewelry.

Bima’s, as it turns out, is a 2-3 floor jewelry emporium with a Bobs-big-boy-looking cartoon of a boy plastered on the sign in front. I’m guessing that’s Bima. Despite being the middle of the day Friday, the place was PACKED with Indians. I could not be more bored than gold shopping, so I eventually found a chair and caught up on my reading, sit ting there in my flowy green camel-trek shit and my made-in-Varkala blue drawstring pants, with my brown bandana hiding my bandage, drawing fewer stares than expected. Tired from lack of sleep, I chewed gum to stay awake, suddenly craving good coffee and comic book stores.

Kochi is a surprisingly laid-back city. Even the big-city part of it, Erkulam, has been easy to walk around in (more so than North India). Man, if the weather here wasn’t so murderous, I’d stay in the south a lot longer.

Natacha came by to pick me up, not having bought a crumb of gold. I think she expected to find bargains, but I mean, face it, India is cheap, but not gold-is-cheap-here cheap.

She also looked through one sari store where she liked the quality but disliked the patterns, finding the bored, bratty teen shop girls no help whatsoever. I loved the shop’s full-blast A/C; it definitely made you want to linger.

We headed back to the ferry and made it back to Kochi’s Jew Town in time to see if the synagogue would be open for Shabbat. About which I’ll talk about in my next post.

Back to the backwaters: India day 27 (Kerala Backwaters to Kochi)

November 11, 2008

Don’t let anyone tell you that sleeping by the river is “cool,” not temperature-wise, anyway. Natacha & I barely slept during our night on the Kerala backwaters. the mosquito net was too close to the bed, which meant that it rested on my foot and/or cheek most of the night, unless I laid diagonal on the bed, which needless to say is not fun for Natacha.

That was really the only drawback to our trip, though. From our room, we watched the sun rise over the canals, had a yummy coconut-laced breakfast, and enjoyed a nice, slow return to the houseboat docks. One of the most worthwhile experiences of our trip.

In fact, we liked it so much, as soon as we got off the boat, we immediately booked a longboat excursion, so we could visit the small canals that the big houseboat couldn’t go.

This took three hours and was just as wonderful. These were the backwaters of the backwaters: tiny networks of shallow waters where we saw close-up what the houseboats couldn’t get near. We saw people’s homes, farms, their ducks and chickens, their neighborhoods, and really stunning foliage.

After a quick lunch in Aleppey, we got on a bus to Kochi, a town we’d heard much about. After a sleepless night, four hours in the hot Kerala sun, and several hours on buses and taxis, we were EXHAUSTED.

We found a room in the third place we looked at (not the cleanest, but it had a/c and we were the only people there). I wasn’t feeling my best (it had been a nutty week, after all), but we found a neat couple to have dinner with. They were a young French duo who had chosen to travel India and China on—get this--a tandem bicycle. i.e. they were nuts. We joined them for dessert as well, and listened to their various stories of traveling through India on a FUCKING TANDEM BICYCLE. Insane.

Tried to sleep, failed, did 90 min of yoga, finally slept.

Forward, to the backwaters: India Day 26 (Varkala to Alleppey

November 7, 2008

Jesus! That took some doing. Woke up in Varkala, though not too early, thank good. Instead of getting up at 5 AM, we decided to take the late train to the bus to Allepey.

The famous slow boat trip along these south Indian backwaters are universally recognized as one of the best excursions you can take in the entire country. After a tuk-tuk to a train to a bus, we arrived about three hours later at a dusty bus station in Alleppey, not 100% knowing how to take the next step. i.e. booking a houseboat to sail us along the Kerala backwaters. We couldn’t even find the boat docks.

And as was our habit, we ended up there during the hottest part of the day. Of course, it didn’t take long for the touts to arrive. Even rested and refreshed as we were, it was still a horrendous ordeal. We were beset by several, and waved them off as best we could. The most persistent one, well, persisted, and we gave in after he offered to hire a tuk-tuk at his expense to take us to the boat docks. Twenty minutes later, we found ourselves in front of several dozen houseboats, all lined up shoulder-to-shoulder.

Our tout, whom I’ll call “Hazel” as he had these crazy hazelnut-colored eyes, called to various boats, apparently taking us to the ones who would work with him. We started with a small boat, captained by Hazel’s cousin, which was ok but not great. We’d stashed our stuff there and tried others, getting farther and farther away from our bags as we went down the line.

The second boat was a good one, but in negotiating, the captain seemed dead set on overcharging and undersupplying us. This guy was also apparently Hazel’s cousin. Uh-oh.

After this point, we set off to get our bags and get rid of hazel. But he—guess what—persisted, and together we found the right boat. Built for a much larger party than us, it was still willing to take us—not least because it was low season and most boats had gotten booked an hour before we showed up.

Hazel negotiated it for us, but couldn’t get the price we wanted. No big surprise, given that his commission probably figured into it. We insisted on talking with the boat’s owner, who showed up an hour later. We got closer, but still paid a bit more than we wanted: around $120. But given that the price covered 24 hours on a 2-bedroom houseboat, a crew of 5, and three meals, we didn’t mind flashpacking a little. Say what you will about India, but the prices are nothing to sneeze at.

Besides, the roof deck on this boat was awesome.

They call the boat a slow boat for a reason: It travels very S-L-O-W-L-Y. But the slowness really takes you to a different place, or rather, pace. We inched down palm-lined waterways for hours, watching life among the rivers and canals of this beautiful area.

We saw villagers wash their clothes (or themselves), walk down the jetties, sit in chairs watching the boats go by, and turn their heads away when I tried to take their photos.

Birds flew from palm to palm. No one waved, simply going along with their business.

At one point from the roof deck, Natacha looked out on the waters and said, “It’s supremely beautiful.” Good a way as any to describe it.

Teatime consisted of fried bananas.

Around six, we watched the sunset from the roof deck. After sunset we walked along the riverbank, running into a brit couple and walking together for a while. Then it was back to the boat for dinner, which was DELICIOUS…not least of which because everything was made with some form of coconut: Chopped, shredded, milk. Note to self: cooking with coconut = yum!

Vaycay from our Vaycay: India Day 22-25 (Varkala)

November 4, 2008

Five days of rest, relaxation, and bloody hot sun--and boy, did we need it.

Most people traveling in India for any length of time spend weeks in Goa to recover from, well, travel in India. We didn't have any desire to visit Goa, so we found a beach elsewhere. Varkala was much lower key and had way fewer people--especially in the post-season, when we went. The weather was getting too hot for most, meaning no crowds. Fewer restaurants and stores were open, but who cares? We didn’t go there for the scene.

Avoiding the resorts farther up the cliffs and sticking mostly to the area around our pleasant $28/night a/c room, we found Varkala to be a great place to recharge our batteries. Most of our five days were filled with great views of the beach from the cliffs above, fresh fish every night, and the best body-surfing I’ve ever done. The water was warm and it felt like it genuinely wanted me to have a good time. In low tide, that is. In high tide, it threw me around viciously and it felt like the surf genuinely wanted me to break my neck. Still fun though.

A typical day went as such:

Wake up
Eat breakfast
Go to the beach for sun and swimming
Eat lunch
Nap or read indoors (out of the noon sun)
Eat dinner
Go to bed

What’s not to love?

There were a few exceptions, of course, little adventures here and there, such as:

-My one and only Varkala yoga session with a yogi I can best describe as “pissy.” He had supposedly written a book on yoga that was used by the Indian armed forces (what, did you think they did jumping jacks?) . He complained about my not wanting to commit for a full week’s “study” (because how was I going to truly learn yoga?), but I think that he was more pissed that he didn’t have any students, period. I was the only one who showed up for his regular morning practice.

-Planning the next leg of the trip, which required lots of time at the one A/C internet café on the cliffs.

-A homemade thali dinner in the backyard of Kumari, a woman Dani recommended to us, who made a special dinner for Natacha, I, and the British woman who co-ran the Internet café.

Varkala also happened to be a vacation spot for Indians as well. We met a lot of nice folks there, most of whom were curious to encounter westerners like us. Lots of families and students on weekend trips.

All in all, we got lots of rest and relaxation, and I read a ton of Salman Rushdie’s MIDNIGHTS CHILDREN there. Good times.

Escape from TVD: India Day 21 (Trivandrum--Varkala)

October 10, 2008

With Natacha feeling better, and myself on the mend as well, we packed up our packs and headed to the TVD train station. Our breakfast was at a fascinating Indian Coffee shop, actually called the India Coffee Shop. This one had this nutty winding hallway where you literally had to climb higher and higher to get to your table. It was a chain; like an Indian Denny’s. Families went there, people celebrated there, and it was a reliable place to go to get your morning dosa & coffee.

A 45-minute train to Varkala was all it took for us to start our vacation (from our vacation). Once we got to Varkala, everything was just easier. We got a tuk tuk from the trains station without any problem. We stayed at the first guest house we found.

We spent the day doing nothing but walking along the Cliffs that overlooked the beach, just checking out the scene. We took in so much, including the sun, that we ended up getting overheated.

Somewhere in there, I got another haircut and shave. Having not shaved nor bathed properly in several days, it just made more sense to cut my hair off. The shave part was just plain indulgent.

Natacha photographed it, to make sure that there'd be no funny business with the razor. We lunched at an underwhelming place (thanks for the recco Lonely Planet!), where we chatted and played around with a 5 year old orphan who was taken in by the family that ran the restaurant. They had ho money to school him, so they watched over him at the restaurant.

We ate at a vegetarian place with almost no light by which to read the menu, and went to sleep. Lovely part of the world.

Varkala, interrupted: India Day 20-21 (Delhi--Trivandrum)

October 7, 2008

The morning in Delhi just flew by, what with getting ready, taking it easy that day, and what not. We got to the airport in the late afternoon for our plane from Delhi to Trivandrum, the closest airport to Varkala. Why Varkala? Well, we wanted to see India’s south, and had planed to meet Dani there, but my hospital stay prevented that. But we had the plane tickets so off we went.

Before that, though, we were off to Dani & Ashik’s hotel. Unlike our ten-dollar-a-day diet, they chose a fancy, FANCY resort outside Delhi, close to the airport. So we went to visit them there. VERY kibosh. I think they had marble floors. And a swimming pool! You have no idea how nice a swimming pool can feel until you’ve been in India two weeks.

(Natacha doesn't want me to post those pictures because, you know, bathing suits)

We hauled ass (late!) to the Delhi airport, with the usual hassles and late flights. Natch ate some in-flight food that didn’t agree with her, and was sick by the next morning. That’s right, folks. India is such hard traveling that even the AIRPLANE food will get you.

The next morning I found us an A/C room that she would be more comfortable in and searched for clean bandages for my forehead. It was across from a soccer field and near at least one good restaurant. We had an amazing Thali—um, actually, I had it, Natacha wasn’t feeling up to it and had a bowl of soup instead.

We found our way to the outdoor market, which was a cramped and full of exciting visuals, but Natacha wasn’t feeling her usual market-loving self.

So we walked across town back to our neighborhood for a quiet dinner, spotting the local YMCA along the way, with this unfortunately named class: "Catch them Young."

Trivandrum isn’t anything to be excited about…just a place to wait until your wife feels better. Give it a miss.

The Dehli Recovery Plan: India day 18-19

October 3, 2008

When recovering from a hospital stay, I wouldn’t choose Delhi as a city to recover in. But there I was. Fortunately, Natacha’s friend Dani and our new friend Ashik were in town for a few days, so Natacha didn’t have to be bored to tears while I rested in the room and drank water and ate bananas. I joined them for meals, coming out to eat, mostly at Sam's restaurant at the top of the Vivek hotel.

But even in the afternoon, if a restaurant was too hot or something, I would get dizzy and have to leave. Thanks to the whole hospital trauma, whenever my body got a little overheated, it would remember what happened before and tense up I'd get anxious and that would make things worse and...no more passing out, thank god, but it took some weeks for my body to not freak out if I got too hot.

Going out at night wasn't a problem though.

Natacha took a shopping excursion with D & A, as they were looking for items that Ashik could sell in Germany when the two of them traveled there later in the year.

A couple of highlights: we ran into one of our French student friends at our favorite restaurant, the Banana Leaf.

And one night, while having dinner at Sam's rooftop restaurant in the Paranganj, I watched a parade go by underneath us, horses, carriages, floats, and marchers: I don't know what it was about, but it was quite a sight in that dark Delhi evening. Mostly we just prepped for Varkala, for a VERY well-earned beach vacation.

Hospital Hijinx: India day 17 (Dehli part 2 day 3)

September 30, 2008

I’ll say this for the East/West medical center. They took good care of me. In the two days I spent there, I met with three different doctors, always had a full saline IV, and had a battery of tests, all in less than 48 hours. Plus, they let Natacha stay in the room with me, and fed us three meals a day the whole time we were there. I really did get back to health during my stay there.

Only to nearly faint again. When they presented us with the bill.

If Insurance had taken care of it, I wouldn’t have had a problem. But the front desk screwed up the contact with our insurance company, so we had to pay it up front. Which is when we looked at the bill.

And saw that every saline bag, every bit of medicine, every stool test (the first one came back negative; they told us the last two were “just to make sure”), and all three doctors visits…they charged for everything.

We soon realized that, actually, we could have left the day before…but they asked us to stay just a bit longer so the senior doctor could take a look at me. That senior doctor spent five minutes with me and told me that I was looking good, but should stick around the night just in case.

And when they couldn’t over-service, they over-charged. They charged Natacha a full bed rate for staying in my room, when the first night she slept in a chair and the second night a mattress on the floor. And we still shared the room with Sven the asshole. In fact, there was a variety of things they charged us for that they didn’t even supply!

We could have left at 11 am that Sunday morning, but arguing the bill took so long—including angry phone calls with an off-site administrator—that we didn’t get out of there until 4 PM. We argued with the young guy at the front desk who didn’t know how to do anything. We argued with the doctor on call who told the guy at the front desk to do things he didn’t know how to do. We argued with on offsite administrator by phone. Little by little, we pared down the bill to as closes as could to a fair price. And it still wasn’t all that fair. Whomever coined the term “India always wins” wasn’t kidding.

On the one hand, I did appreciate that they took good care of me. The hospital was clean, theneedles were sterile, and the food was decent. On the other hand, they also wantged to prescribe an MRI to me, even though I didn’t have a concussion, just so they could collect the money on the procedure. They were clearly taking advantage of me in a time of literal weakness. That’s just fucked up.

And we weren’t the only patients complaining about our bill. The East/West Medical center had two other patients yelling at them at the same time we were.

Come on…who needs three stool tests in two days?

We did make one friend while there—no, not Sven, smartass. A sweet-natured French lady whose three-year-old son came in for severe dehydration. He was doing much better by the time we left, running up and down the halls in a cape and generally being a healthy little handful. Why a woman was traveling in India with a three-year-old is another story altogether, one which in interest of her privacy I won’t tell here (though it’s a GOOD one).

By the time N & I left, it was almost 5 PM and we didn’t have enough time to find a new hotel room. We had kept our super-grotty A/C cel at the Lords, so we stayed in that for the night. Thanks to the gents there for cleaning the place up before we got back.

Having been in the hospital for two days, the friends we’d planned on visiting in Varkala had already left there. But, they had just arrived in Delhi, to run some errands before traveling to Kashmir and eventually Germany. Dani is a filmmaker friend of Natacha’s from New York, who had been spending time in India working on a film about her friend Ashik. Ashik was a Kashmiri jewler who had met Dani while working in Varkala. Dani was planning to make a film about his sister’s arranged marriage in Kashmir, and the two of them were getting some production errands done in Delhi before going up north. Which was fortunate, as it meant we got to spend some time with them while I recovered in Delhi. We had dinner with them in the Paranganj, me with a huge bandage on my head from when I passed out & cut my forehead. We hadn’t seen Dani in almost two years, and watching her & Natacha reunite was a true pleasure.

Returning to the room that night, we found the hotel travel agent, so we could settle up for the transportation to the hospital that he had arranged that fateful night. He charged us about five times a normal rate. We talked him down to triple rate, and even at that price I almost spat on his desk. India always wins.

Introducing Sven, the biggest asshole I’ve ever met: India day 16 (Dehli part 2 day 2)

September 26, 2008

Before I begin, let me stress that the Sven in this post is NOT the Sven I worked with at a recent job. That Sven is a bright, good-natured young man and a pleasure to work with.

No, I’m talking about my roommate at Delhi’s East-West Medical Center, Sven from Switzerland. The most horrid, little prick I’ve ever encountered. If not for his general insistence on making Natacha and I feel as uncomfortable as possible, I honestly think I could've left there at least a half-day-earlier.

The night before, when I was rushed to this hospital, I recalled my wife arguing with a heavy Germanic voice. It turned out that this voice was my new roommate, who, I also learned, (1) was supposed to have the room to himself, (2) didn’t want the A/C to be turned on, and (3) in retribution, planned to crank his music until the A/C was turned off.

He clearly could care less that that the guy who was wheeled into his room in the middle of the night (ie me) was (1) in no condition to be moved to an upstairs room, (2) suffering severe dehydration and as such might need his Delhi hospital room to be cool, and (3) might need to get some fucking sleep.

Eventually Natasha convinced him to dial down his pre-school negotiating style and agree to have the a/c on, sans music, and we all got to sleep.

I woke up that morning to find Natacha having a cordial but still tense conversation with him, wherein Natacha was pretty much charming him into keeping the A/C on.

This did not stop Sven from booting up his laptop and marking his territory by playing two kinds of music I hate, the latter I didn’t know I hated until I heard it that first time: (1) The Doors, and (2) Swiss hip-hop.

I ignored him at first, opting to use the bathroom. The sink had four little bars of soap on it, each one sporting pubic hairs. Classy dude.

Eventually, as some sort of peace offering, he asked us if there was any music we wanted to hear. He & I started talking all civilized-like, and I learned many things about Sven:

He was Swiss (/German), and was traveling through India to escape the Swiss draft.
Out of all the young Europeans I’d ever met, his English was the worst.
He liked America a lot, especially the “red Indians” he met on a motorcycle trip across the U.S.
His experience with the “red Indians” was why he kept a feather tied in his unkempt curly hair. Apparently he used to have an eagle feather, but lost it, so he took a feather he found on the ground in India and tied that into his hair instead.
He was in the hospital because he'd scraped up his leg while motorcycling in the North of India. Normally, a few scrapes wouldn't send you into the hospital. But someone told him to put some ointment on it, and just leave it. Not wash it, not change the bandage…just leave it. And he believed that. Two months later it probably looked like something Tom Savini cooked up and I imagine he almost died from it. He had been at the medical center for the past six weeks, getting a series of skin grafts.
Instead of a crutch, he “found” an ax handle on an Indian construction site and was carving it with the intention of putting gems in it and making it a “really cool” walking stick. It was too short for him, but he said he wanted to put some sort of skull on the top of it, like Snoop Dogg.
He didn’t have anyone to talk to at the med center, so he hung out on the outdoor patio and tried to chat with the copious Israeli backpackers that ended up there. They’d talk with him in English for a few minutes, then go back to talking to each other in Hebrew and ignore him.
He complained that the A/C made him cold, but refused to wear a shirt.

Sven was the classic Euro hippie wannabe: He chose the backpacker lifestyle not to learn about other cultures or to supplement his life experience, but because it was easier than dealing with real life, going to work/school, or bathing.

Every time we mentioned him to a doctor or nurse, he or she apologized for our having to room with him. He'd been terrorizing the staff for weeks.

You might think I’m overdoing it with my description of him. Perhaps because I haven’t finished my story.

Later that day, we seemed to all be copacetic. Natacha & I were just finishing lunch (She stayed in the room with me, making sure I was being taken care of and that Sven didn’t pull any shit). Sven held up his headphones and said that they’re shorting out on him, would we mind if he played his music some more. I said no, I didn’t mind, but could he keep the volume down a little?

And he went off.

Oh, how he bitched and moaned, ranting again about the A/C, yelling about how this was HIS room, HIS insurance was paying for a single room, HE was cold and didn’t have a shirt (paying no attention to the freshly laundered clothes at the foot of his bed). On and on he went. All in his clunky English and heavy Germanic accent, which was the aural equivalent of getting hit with balls of raw dough.

All I did was ask him to keep his music turned down a little, and now the guy WOULD. NOT. SHUT. UP. Even the hardcore Swiss hip-hop was better than this.

Natacha and I both responded to him, trying to keep things civilized, trying not to yell back. Finally, we just plain ignored him, talking between ourselves and/or reading. By taking away the fuel, he could only do a slow burn on his own. Which he did.

He berated us with insults from his bed; the non-four-letter ones were “You are original Americans” (he meant “typical,” but it was funny given his love of native Americans) and told us we “loved Bush.” In between his smoke breaks and attempts to chat with the Israelis, he would come back and call us Bush-lovers and what not.

Oh, and "terrorists." He called us that as well.

At one point, he fired up his iTunes and loudly played a mix of anti-American songs at us. They included Frank Zappa’s “Bobby Brown,” and some sappy protest ballad called “Dear Mr. President.” (UPDATE: it's by Pink.) Charming. And mature.

All because we wanted to use a hospital room to heal and recover.

Congratulations, Sven, my roommate from the East/West Medical Center. In my umpthy-umph years on this planet, You are officially the biggest asshole I have ever met.

Bobby Brown - Frank Zappa [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cXqgLpOu0xQ&feature=related]

SOME PREVIOUS INDIA POSTS:

India at 80 KPH

A few thoughts while natacha’s off using skype

India Day 4: Musical Guesthouses

India Day 6: Huckster Ghats and Hippie Ghettos

India Day 7: Guilt and Papayas

India Day 8: City Palace, yes. Lake Palace…?

Sick as a Delhi dog: India Day 15 (Delhi part 2 Day 1)

September 23, 2008

Definitely a sweeps-week two parter this time, folks.

I awoke on the train around 7 AM, (seven hours to go!) feeling like shit, dryer than the dust that the fans whipped around. Read more of my book on India (eighty pages on India and Pakisatan? Come on, Luce). Buying Chai from a vendor calling out “Chai, chai chai” in the reediest most haggard voice you can imagine. Watching legless men drag themselves from berth to berth, sweeping under the bunks and begging for rupees. Watching Natacha play cards with students on their way to Delhi—and win.

We exited the Delhi train station just before noon. Walked straight to the Paranganj, and found a hotel—I don’t know how we chose the Lords Hotel, but we did. They gave us a room on the fourth floor. So we had to climb up all the stairs with our stuff. I flopped onto the bed, feeling genuinely sick. Natacha turned on the “air cooler,” which a many of you know, is a big fan with a pan of water in it that is supposed to blow “cooled” air into the room. It didn’t. I fell asleep, fading in and out for a couple hours while Natacha made plans to change our flight to Varkala. We were supposed to fly out the next day to meet her friend Dani down there, but with me sick, that was no longer an option.

After a while it was clear that the air cooler wasn’t doing shit, so Natacha had us moved to the one room they had left with air conditioning, a windowless cell on the first floor. I hadn’t gotten any better, ans so Natacha got some food for herself and got some more water and bananas for me.

I laid in bed for the rest of the day, listening endlessly to my Comedy Death Ray MP3’s and trying to ingest water and bananas. When Natacha went out to dinner, I opened up the cookies I bought at the Jaipur train station and ate those. Not the smartest thing to do, but I wanted to treat myself to some because I felt so miserable.

Nighttime hit, and despite sleeping all day I suspected sleeping all night was not going to be a problem. I took my malaria pill, concerned about having missed a day, went straight to sleep.

That’s when everything went to shit. Sort of literally.

I won’t draw you a picture—and DEFINITELY not a color one. Suffice to say that I woke up around 11 PM with intense, stabbing stomach pain. I passed out in the bathroom and hit my head on the wall, cutting my forehead.

The part I wasn’t conscious for was this: Natacha couldn’t open the door because my body was blocking it. She finally pushed her way in and found me unconscious with blood running down my face. Pleasant!

She couldn’t rouse me. She yelled for help, over and over, and the only people that came by were women. One of them ran and got the men at the hotel desk, around which time Natacha managed to wake me up.

Once the guys from the hotel got to us, Natacha barked orders right and left. She told them to get a car to take us to the hospital. I was still half-conscious, and not able to get to my feet, so I crawled on hands and knees out of the room and down the hall, stopping only to cover the stairs with vomit.

I crawled through the lobby, down the hallway, and into a vehicle of some sort. I insist it was a van, but Natacha tells me that it was a fancy tuk-tuk of some sort, as vans and cars aren’t allowed in the Paranganj. Whatever, completely-in-command-of-her-facilities Natacha. Half-conscious-Ken calls bullshit.

There’s a few pertinent things I remember about that ride. I remember passing the hospital and asking why. I remember being taken instead to a “medical center” that handled westerners (and as such was probably better equipped & more hygienic than the local hospital).

I remember getting put on a gurney (or was it a wheelchair?) and placed in a room. I remember a bellowing Germanic voice complaining about something. I remember loud rock music. And I remember Natacha telling the loud Germanic voice to turn down the music, and the loud Germanic voice refusing to unless we turned off the air conditioning. I remember getting an IV, and then falling asleep.