LISBON-FIRST DAZE

Flying has become one of my least favorite parts of traveling.  Flying multiple time zones to the east is the worst of the worst.  It takes several days to get on a somewhat normal schedule and the first few days are a nightly hell of short bursts of deep sleep followed by hours of wakefulness.

After a particularly bizarre dream my eyes open to tiny pinpoints of brilliant sunlight streaming through the steel roll down shutters that cover the windows in our apartment in Lisbon.  I stagger to my feet and wander through the white IKEA decorated rooms trying to get my bearings.  Am I in an IKEA store?  Am I still dreaming?  I gulp a glass of water and glance at my phone.  In large digital numbers it tells me it is 12 noon.  "Up at the crack of noon...again",  I muse to myself.  I hear Deborah groan in the bedroom, "What time is it?"

"Guess," I reply.

 "Oh, noon"

I laugh because it is so scary how much we are on the same wavelength so much of the time.

It is our fourth day in Lisbon and we have not been able to accomplish much more than getting up late, eating and wandering around the city with little desire to see the sights. Our main goal has been to get over the jet lag.

I make some tea and after a quick bowl of cereal, I feel more conscious and almost human.  We are determined to do something today...anything today...after all we did not come 5,000 miles  to vegetate forever in a jet lagged state.

I peruse our digitized guidebook and suggest a trip to the Gulbenkian Museum which is a little known (outside of Lisbon...at least I had never heard of it) world class museum.  I google directions on my phone and start pushing Deborah out the door.  It is now 2PM.  We walk down two flights of steep, narrow, stairs. (I don't know why, but it seems the countries with the shortest people seem to have the steepest stairs) and squeeze through the 18" door onto a narrow cobbled lane.  We walk like drunken sailors over the uneven cobbles.  Our route takes us through narrow canyons of three storied colonial buildings trimmed in yellow (to ward off evil spirits) and blue (to ward off the even more evil spirits known as flies).  Above,  a wedge of  brilliant blue Iberian spring sky  full of fluffy white clouds is rimmed by the red tile roofs of the canyon.  Narrow juliet balconies of cast iron jut out over our heads waving flags of laundry in the early afternoon breeze.

After a ten minute walk we arrive (after a few miscues) at the proper bus stop for the #728 bus that will take us to the museum.  Our bus soon arrives and we file on with the other passengers touching our pass to the reader that beeps and lets us know we are good to go.  Thirty minutes later we spy the large tree lined lawns of the park that contains the Gulbenkian Museum  (say that three times fast).

The museum is a squat cube with a massive  flat roof jutting out over  the walls.  The stone pathway to the door is bordered by a large pool filled with reeds full of ducks and young ducklings paddling in and out.  We walk through an expansive glass wall (it contained a door, no worries)  into the large modern lobby of the museum and find the ticket desk.   After a quick transaction, (one of the few things I really enjoy about getting older is that the senior rate is half price) with tickets in hand we set off to explore the museum.

The collection was donated to the museum, along with a sizeable endowment, by a billionaire oil man; kind of a Portuguese version of Getty.  He was a voracious collector of antiquities, sculpture, paintings, furniture and it seems practically anything else he could get his hands on.  The collection spans a period of about 5,000 years and quite frankly it contains some of the best examples of art the world has ever known.  The guy had taste.

Since art is best seen and not heard (or read about as the case may be), I will close now and let the eloquence of Deborah's pictures describe our visit to Lisbon and the Gulbenkian Museum.

Business lounge at Ataturk Airport  (We had a 14 hour layover here.  Looks like something out of the Arabian Nights)

Street vendors-Flea Market in Lisbon

Not a backpack I would wear but to each his own I say

I tried to convince Deb she needed one of these fedoras so I could find her when she wanders off with her camera

Not sure if he is a window washer, practicing to climb the Eiger  or one very bold cat burglar

Boys night out

No, that is not Mark Dawson in the middle

Deb rides the wave

Atop a mirador with one of Lisbon's famous hills in the background

Lisbon

Our beverage of choice vinho branco for the princely sum of two bucks

2000 year old Greek Urn

Hittite King  (bas relief)

Rembrant

Lalique "Dragonfly"

Monet "Boy with red hat"

Degas

This is not Uncle John

The #28 trolley (The ride of choice of some of the best pickpockets in the world)

I try to have a laugh with the butcher

IT'S ALL ABOUT THE JOURNEY- A MEMORIAM TO KEITH

Many years ago, I learned that traveling, like life, is all about the journey. Each journey is composed of a series of unique and different moments.  I believe the key to a successful voyage is being able to live in those moments; live in those moments without the expectation of what the next moment may bring; live each of those moments as if you will never get them back (because you won't).  

Over time, even the most hard learned lessons are forgotten.   Many times in my life, I have forgotten the lesson of living in the moment.  Somehow, each time that happened, something would occur or some person would come along and reaffirm the lesson to me.

About five years ago I met Keith Sherman.  Keith was a master of living in the moment.   I never once heard him express concern about what would happen next.  Many times, I suspected that Keith was down to his last dollar, but he never seemed to be worried about that.  He just lived his life, moment by moment.  At times he seemed scattered but I realized that his mind was working so fast that whatever moment I thought he was in,  he had already moved on.  

His journey was far different from anyone I have ever met.  He was a traveler in more ways than one.  He loved journeying abroad and we had many long chats about our travels.  He was  constantly on a journey to gain more knowledge.  He was well read.  He knew a lot about music and art.  He was a joy to talk to about practically any topic you could think of.   He was an adventurous cook, a writer, an artist,  and a very classy guy. He was a gentle spirit, a sensitive man, a renaissance man.  Most importantly he was a good friend.  

Keith died today.  His death, along with the death of several good friends in the past few months,  reinforced the lessons of my travels.  It is not  about the goal.  It is not about the destination.  It is about the moments that make up our journey;  our travels through space, life and time.

DREAMS OF PARADISE

We traveled through Sri Lanka for several days absorbing the culture, exploring ancient ruins and  enjoying the scenery.  Perhaps our expectations were too high, or we were just exhausted from four days of Bikram's wedding, but nothing we saw really wowed us.  That changed when we went to the beach.

Immersed in a thick sea of  warm humid air I gaze up at trunks of slender  curving palms topped with crowns of feathery green fronds that flutter in the gentle tropical breeze.    Young coconuts shelter beneath the spindly leaves, hiding from the brutal equatorial sun.  I squint through the dappled canopy blinded by the glare of an azure  blue sky sprinkled with puffy white clouds. Beneath me, lush green lawn slopes down to brilliant white coral sand at waters edge. Tourists, their tenure here obvious by the shade of their skin, walk along the beach.  To the right, I watch powerful waves  break into lines of white froth to curl up on  the strand.  To the left, young boys frolic in a tranquil lagoon sheltered from the surf by a towering rock island.

Marissa Beach

The  kilometer long  crescent of  Marissa Beach is fringed with palm trees that arc over the sand.   Small guest houses tucked in the palms  provide cheap beachfront lodgings.   Beach side restaurants with tables at waters edge offer the catch of the day for a few dollars.   A kilo of grilled barracuda, doused with lime juice, salt and pepper  is served with fries and salad, costs about five U.S. dollars.  You can add a 22 ounce bottle of ice cold Lion lager for about a buck and a half.     Costing less than two dollars, fresh squeezed tropical juice cocktails  are served at happy hours that last all day.  

What's for dinner

A light breeze tempers The oppressive mid morning heat.  A cooling dip in the 85 degree surf  works up an appetite for lunch.   Clothed only in swimsuits and sunglasses we walk along the beach and stop at the Curry in a Hurry restaurant. Escaping the noon day sun, we grab a table in the shade beneath swaying palms.  We order the daily special of prawn curry.  While waiting for lunch to be served I realize I haven't worn a shirt since yesterday and haven't worn shoes since we got here four days ago.  My thoughts are interrupted when the waiter places a stainless steel tray on the table.  Two veg curries fill little compartments on the tray.  Coconut sambar fills another.  A large compartment holds enough rice to keep a Samoan happy.  This is all capped by a giant papadum with a generous dollop of mango chutney on top. A bowl full of small curried prawns completes the package. The curries are spicy but delicately flavored. There is plenty of food for two; all for less than three dollars.  

  

While munching on the curries, we watch he surf pound the sand a few yards away. Two to four foot waves come in at an angle to the  sand to break in about four feet of water;  a perfect setup for body surfing. After lunch, I drop my sunglasses on a lounge in front of restaurant and dive into the surf and catch four waves in rapid succession.  I continue to catch waves until my arms have turned to rubber. I crawl out of the surf to collapse on the beach lounge to bake my bones in the hot afternoon sun.  I doze off dreaming of paradise.  Much later, I awake with a smile on my face.  Sitting up,  I look around and pinch myself to make sure I am not still dreaming.

Bloggin'

Happy Hour

Sunset

BIKRAM’S WEDDING

Weddings are a joyous occasion no matter what the circumstances.  In America, it is  the culmination and formalization of love.  However, in India, many marriages are arranged.  I used to have major reservations about this system but after meeting many couples in India that were the successful products of an arranged marriage, my prejudice has changed.  In an arranged marriage, parents and family choose your mate and who knows you better?  Anyway, please read on as we go to  Bikram’s wedding.

Traditional mehndi designs for Indian weding

Clouds of choking dust  illuminated by  headlights of hundreds of cars crawl along  a rough dirt road.  We follow  hazy   bright red taillights glowing like the eyes of giant cats in the night. Ahead, the haze takes on a surreal glow turning from white to red then blue.  The line of cars slows.  We approach a brightly lit red and white tent  towering 30 feet above the dusty road.  Pulling in to a dirt parking lot we exit and stumble over a rough path to enter the tent. We  pass through a corridor of billowing drapery which opens out into a gigantic tent spanning at least 50,000 square feet.  Tables, chairs and lounging couches are sprawled under the brightly lit pavilion.  

The grand pavillion

With our new found friend Carina, Deb and I find a table on the edge of the melee far from the speakers booming out what I can only describe as techno-Punjabi.  We sit and are immediately surrounded by waiters plying us with small dishes of curry, tandoori chicken and fish,  and other small dishes of unidentifiable stuff that tastes really good.  Other waiters offer scotch and beer.  Every thirty seconds another waiter presents us with another tidbit.  Somehow hungry after the previous three meals of the day, we down everything in sight.  After 30 minutes of stuffing ourselves, we catch our breath and look around.  Surrounding the huge tent is a five acre complex bordered with a continuous line of food stations offering everything from a full thali dinner to the variety of snacks we just gorged on and some we missed. In one corner a live show features choreographed Punjabi dancers  gyrating to the booming music. 

It is the final night of festivities for Bikram’s wedding.  Somehow we have survived a four day, almost non-stop party.  Endless meals coupled with scotch and water have left us exhausted and more than a little hung over, but exhilarated from the parties and all the new and wonderful people we have met. But mostly, we are overwhelmed by the hospitality of the Singh family.  Deb and I were provided with a private brand new suite of rooms.  We were treated like visiting royalty.  Amarjit, Bikram’s father,  even arranged a VIP trip to the local border crossing where we were escorted to front row velvet seats for the nightly border closing.  (Refer to the post on Waga from my 2010 blog on India for full details of this ceremony)  After the ceremony we were ushered into the VIP lounged and plied with tea and snacks. 

Indian border guards at attention

High stepping border guard

High stepping Pakistani border guard

Deb, Carina, Bikram and Richard pose with the Indian border guards

Indian border monument

While sipping an ice cold beer, I reflected on the morning when we attended the formal wedding of Bikram and his new bride Jess.  Resplendent in traditional Punjabi dress, Bikram and his bride took their formal vows in the gudwara (temple) attended by about 100 friends and family.  After the requisite four trips around the altar they were pronounced husband and wife and we retired to the courtyard for our third meal of the day.

The Singh family, Amerjit, Bikram, Karan, Gorindar

Bikram and Jess circle the altar

My reverie was broken by the arrival of Bikram and Jess whose entrance was displayed on several video screens hung around the tent.  Like reigning monarchs they proceeded across the compound to be seated on thrones near the stage.  After holding court for about two hours, Deb and I decided it was time to rescue them so we went over and invited them to dance.  Amarjit interceded as there were a few more photo ops, so Deb and I went to the empty dance floor and started to shake it up.  We were soon joined by a mob of people who helped us remember the Punjabi dances that we had learned at the Indian wedding we had attended three years ago.  I believe I danced with every man, woman and child there. 

Deb doing the Punjabi

Fueled by scotch, beer and lots of delicious snacks we danced until the small hours of the morning.  With only a handful of guests left we were escorted into an adjacent hall where we were fed our fifth meal of the day with free flowing alcohol and beer.  Delirious with fatigue, food, and drink we were  finally transported through quiet dark streets back to Amarjit’s house where we grabbed a few hours  sleep before our flight to Sri Lanka.

Bikram and Jess holding court

chairs arrive for the party

Band for the wedding morning

A couple of old Sikhs  (Bikram's grandfather and Richard)

Our good friends Jaspir and Amerit

Hangin with Grandpa and Carina at the fifth meal of the day

A tearful Jess bids her family goodbye

End of the night Richard, Preet, Arsh (Richie), Deb (in the infamous sari, Harjeet and Pushpinder

THE ROAD TO BUNDI

The northwestern Indian state of Rajastan  is filled with ancient city forts.  One of the lesser known of these is the town of Bundi.  We went to Bundi hoping to find a low key version of some of its more famous brethren like Jodphur, Jaipur and Jaisalmer.  However, our travels are not always about the destination...just as often  the journey is every bit as interesting.

Palace above Bundi

A tortured narrow ribbon of blacktop.  Lurching along, dodging potholes large enough to swallow an unwary cow.  Patches on patches cover what little remains of the road that is not potholed. 

Rock walls stacked in horizontal mortarless works of art undulating over the Rajastani desert. Corralled tailings  from local sandstone quarries… the building blocks of India’s ancient monuments.

 Overtaking a lumbering overloaded truck, dropping two wheels onto the rough rocky road shoulder.  Equally overloaded truck bearing down on us.  Averting a collision of unimaginable proportions, our driver wrenches the wheel to the left.   Another  imminent disaster thwarted.  I breathe a sigh of relief, thankful that I will live to see another day.

Rounding a bend in the road, the blacktop disappears entirely.  We inch along a rough dirt track. Bouncing and jouncing down a steep incline.   A lush river valley opens below.  Mine tailings give way to verdant green rice and vegetable fields that provide nourishment for India’s teeming masses. 

Ahead,  a tractor trailer combination piled impossibly wide and high with rice stalks straddles the road.  Cattle and goats blocking the road, hungrily eye the passing feast.  A wily cow,  narrowly missing a one way trip to the butcher, snatches a mouthful from the passing load.  The cow, oblivious to its narrow escape, munches contentedly on its ill gotten meal and appears to grin as we pass by.

 In a cloud of dust we bump back onto the patchwork quilt of asphalt which expires as we enter a small village degenerating into a rough path of rutted dirt.  The rice fields give way to mud shanties the color of the surrounding dirt.  A mother pulls the veil of her immaculate crimson sari over her mouth, nose, and babe in arms as we trundle past in a haze of brownish-red dust.  A small girl washes dishes by a pump that is the town’s water supply.  A wizened mustached Rajastani man with a gigantic multi-colored turban squats, surreptitiously relieving himself by the roadside.  A chai shop is occupied by several men with skin browned by the intense desert sun.  Pigs, goats and cows  meander across the road unaware of impending death from passing vehicles. 

Our driver is a study in what not to do.  He lugs the motor mercilessly. He is either clueless about the concept of downshifting or feels that anything below third gear is for wimps.  He passes other vehicles when he should not.  His body odor is akin to a dead goat.  This smell is unrelenting except for when he farts... the odor of rotten cabbage, old ashtrays and dead skunk.  His teeth apparently have never been brushed and when he smiles it is like looking into the mouth of a corpse long buried.

Behind us the the sun has lost the blazing yellow of mid-day, now  muted to reds and oranges as it slowly sinks into the haze of the western sky.  

We are nearing Bundi, an ancient desert fortress town.  Traffic slows, then stalls. We are treated to the belching exhaust of  un-tuned diesel engines of countless trucks, buses and automobiles.  The setting sunlight filters through dust thickened fog that chokes and blinds.  At last, we turn off the main road, dropping into Bundi; marveling at the old palace and fort that tower high above in the waning light.  We wend our way down narrow streets to find our hotel, a converted palace, to a much needed bed for the night.