Hit the Beach

A few days before we left the cold, northwest part of India and headed down to the beaches of Goa, we started to get that pre-beach anxiety. You know what I mean. It's what happens when you're in a cold weather climate and suddenly you realize you haven't been working out, and your skin is the color of old milk (if you're white like us, that is). In other words, you're worried about looking bad in your swimsuit.

**On a side note here I'd like to mention that one of perks of marriage is not having to really freak out about having no muscle tone and a beer gut. I mean, I've earned the right to let myself go a little. Right?

Sure we haven't exactly been slaving in some office for the past eight months, but we've been living in a cold-ish climate, shoveling down fatty Indian food all day. Also, there aren't a lot of gyms around. And even if there were I'm sure I could find plenty of excuses not to go.

Sarah isn't as worried as she is pissed off that she hasn't lost any weight in India. I think she expected to drop five pounds just getting off the plane.

"Usually, people lose weight here because they get a horrible intestinal bug or something," I tell her.

"Well if that's what it takes."

"Honey, I don't think you really want that."

"Maybe if I drank the water.... hmmm," she trails off.

Now that we're at the beach, I see my worries have been unfounded. We're the youngest people here by ten years (weird), meaning my pencil thin arms actually look good in comparison. Also, Sarah is sick with what looks to be her first real stomach problem. She's been in bed all day moaning. It looks like we both got what we wanted.

Let's Start Over. Hi, I'm Sarah.

I was reading through some of our comments the other day, and started wondering if Brendan and I were doing something wrong. Childish rants aside, it appears that a few of our readers have taken the opinion that all we do is complain, or make fun of people, or expect the rest of the world to be just like the Unites States.

I'm not sure why we're being misunderstood, but I'd like to at least try to clear things up if I can.

This blog is, first and foremost, about the relationship between Brendan and me in our first year of marriage as we travel the world. That's the premise. It isn't about which countries are good or bad or much of a "travel" diary at all (we've done that to death on our own blogs already, and let me tell ya, that's a whole other project). Obviously many of the experiences we're fleshing out here are unique to couples traveling for extended periods of time, and that's why we think our stories are worth sharing with you. We enjoy being playful with each other by pointing out one another's cute/weird/annoying idiosyncrasies that inevitably present themselves more and more the longer we stay away from home. It's generally light-hearted stuff, though I like to think we hover around insightfulness now and again.

But have we come across as preachers of USA supremacy? Trust me, if I liked it that much, I wouldn't have packed up and left. I'm baffled by the accusation that we're being blind to other peoples' traditions and cultures. We're traveling the world in an effort to not be blind. Sometimes cultural differences are refreshing and sometimes they're challenging. Sometimes they're so off the wall you just gotta laugh about it. I'm pretty sure anyone who's lived out of a backpack for as long or longer than I have would attest to that. Brendan can drive me up the wall, and I can be a huge pain in his rear, but we're out here doing our thing because we want to be.

If we've failed a few of you through our honesty about our trip and each other, then I apologize. We're kind of just winging it day by day. However, I can assure you that flooding our blog with scathing, negative comments is not the way to make us be different people. If you hate what we have to say, then I implore you to stop torturing yourself by coming here and reading our inane stories. Please, be respectful of those that do like our stories and want to participate in our comments section. Or better yet, go on your own world trip, start up a relationship blog, and show us how it's done. I promise to read yours with an open mind.

That's all. Thanks for listening.
-Sarah

Temple Trip

When I was a kid, my father was always dragging the family out to strange "off the beaten track" touristy places. Once, in New Jersey, we drove three hours through a thunder storm to see some old not-so-famous mansion. It was really boring. But I remember my family laughing about how much fun we didn't have. Even my mom and dad cracked up once they conceded that the place was a bust. It was somehow fun having a terrible time.

That mansion was on my mind the past few days. Sarah had an idea to go see some temples. No problem, I said. Lets go. The only hitch was that since we had already booked a flight on a certain day, we didn't have much time to get down to these temples.

It was four days of straight travel. Long bus rides and an overnight train. I like being on the move, but four days is a lot to take. Somewhere about halfway, I thought to say something like, "boy these temples better be worth it." But I kept quiet. It's better to keep a positive attitude.

We finally got there, and oddly enough, didn't see many temples. Instead, we saw stairs. Two hours and thirty three hundred stairs (actual count) later, we reached the temples. They were OK. Interesting stuff. Certainly not worth four days of travel.

Walking down the steps, Sarah said, "I'm sorry, we shouldn't have come here."

"No honey, don't apologize," I told her. "It was fine to come here. They weren't mind blowing, but who cares?" It was an adventure." I thought I sounded like an after-school special, but I meant it. It was an adventure.

"Besides," I said, "what they hell else were we going to do?"

-Brendan

Know Thy Self

Before Brendan and I began our year-long trip, people would ask us why.

"Why did you decide to travel for so long?"

"Why are you choosing to do it now, right after you get married?"

"Just...why? What do you want to get out of it?"

It's the last question I've always found the most intriguing, and the hardest to answer. I didn't know what I wanted to get out of this trip, never having been away from home for more than a few weeks at a time before. I just knew that I wanted to get something. Wisdom, perspective, patience... religious enlightenment? Maybe. Probably. No clue. But I could count on something, right?

Back in our old house in Santa Monica, Brendan and I would fantasize about how our destinies would unfold out there. We'd discover the meaning of life and it wouldn't revolve around our careers in television. Or we'd pull up into a town and decide that it was the perfect place to raise our children, even though we didn't speak the language. Or that we'd make contacts with someone in a Mongolian bar who had better contacts than ours, and the next 30 years would just fall into place. Fantasizing is fun that way. A year is a long time, right? Anything could happen!

We're now in our eighth month of travel, and most of those fantasies have been swept aside and replaced with day-to-day stuff, like where we'll buy our next bar of soap and what time the sun sets (an important detail in a village without electricity, you see). I've been thinking a lot about what I wanted from this trip back in those early days. It's not that I've been unsuccessful, I was just expecting the wrong things. I was looking for epiphanies.

I've had zero epiphanies. I can admit that. But I'm not empty-handed, either. Instead, I've learned a lot about myself. That sounds corny, I know. I roll my eyes when I hear that someone has "really learned a lot and grown so much over this past year", etc etc. But honestly, doing the inward thing and learning about ourselves was inevitable. Leaving our little bubble of familiarity and comfort has forced us to behave in new ways and make new decisions based on all these foreign situations. It's a trip (no pun intended... or was it?).

A lot of what I'm talking about are little things. Like how overpacked a bus has to get before I need to slither out the window to escape a claustrophobic breakdown. I mean, I always felt like I had issues with crowds, but now it's been confirmed, and I have a firm handle on my breaking point. That's a little thing, really. But it's real. And there are so many of those little things. I've amazed myself with what I can put up with (Mom, you have no idea). But there are other parts of me that are unbendable, that are rock-solid, that won't sway, not even in the breeze of the Arabian Sea, because that's who I am. On unfamiliar ground, it's so nice to feel grounded.

Maybe I spoke too soon about that epiphany? Or maybe I just ought to get out of the sun.

-Sarah

Rickshaw Ride

We got into a rickshaw the other night to go to dinner. The driver was friendly enough, asking us where we were from, did we like India.. ect. We tell him we want to go to a restaurant across town. The same place Sarah insisted on going for three consecutive nights (they did have good thalis, so I can't complain). We notice we aren't going the usual way, but don't say anything, since, you know, he's the rickshaw driver and we're the dumb tourists.

A few minutes later, we pull up to a restaurant I've never seen before.

Our driver, a young guy with slick hair turned around in his seat and says, "this is the place, okay?"

"This isn't it. We told you Natraj restaurant by the cinema," says my wife.

"Okay. You get out now."

"What! Natraj restaurant! Take us there."

He just sits there.

Now, I used to drive a cab back in college. I've always had an affinity towards fellow drivers, so I'm kind of hurt when one tries to rip me off.

"Come on man. Just take us where we want to go," I tell him.

He just sits there.

We were on a busy street in what seems to be a sketchy neighborhood outside of town. Also, I'm hungry.

"Quit playing games and just take us to the f---ing restaurant man!"

Now he turns around. "You don't use bad word in my cab... "

"Honey don't..." starts Sarah.

"Oh but you can just drop us off where ever you want..."

"Sir, you don't use bad word..."

"And I can't get angry about it?!"

He starts up the rickshaw and pulls into traffic.

"Honey. please don't swear. They don't like it."

This is ridiculous. I'm supposed to worry about this guy's feelings? I know that culturally it's bad to use curse words, but shouldn't ripping me off frowned upon as well?

He stops to talk with another rickshaw driver.

"Okay, you get out and go with him. He will take you."

"Fine, but I'm not paying you."

"Yes, yes, okay."

Five minutes later, we pull up and the restaurant. Everything is going to be all right. I think to myself that maybe I lost my cool back there. Also, the driver probably had some arrangement which prevented him from taking us to where we wanted to go. But I was hungry enough to swear at a cab driver. So I guess we'll leave it at that.

-Brendan

Golden Globes

Sarah was very excited. The Golden Globes were going to be on TV. They were actually on live the other morning at 6:30. She even got up early and caught a few minutes before we had to catch a bus and then another bus which would keep us bouncing in our seats across the Indian desert for eight hours.

"You know what's great?" she asked sometime during the third hour.

"What?"

"I get to watch the Golden Globes tonight."

I pointed out that since we've been out of the pop culture loop for the past eight months, she wouldn't know the movies they were awarding. She said she didn't care. For her, it wasn't about who won, but a chance to look at pretty dresses, be catty about so and so's hair, and confirm once again that Meryl Streep is fabulous.

We agreed to stay in the first hotel we looked at. Reasonable rates, hot water, and cable TV. I went to the desk to fill out the paperwork and returned to the room a few minutes later to a panicky wife. She couldn't find Star World, the channel airing the Globes. Now, Star World is a staple in the Indian cable TV world. In every hotel we've stayed in India, Star World has been there. But this time, she can't find it.

"I'm sure it's there," I said.

"I've been through it twice, and it's not." She was holding the remote out in front of her with two hands like a loaded gun. Her voice was shaky.

She flipped through a few more channels and then went down to ask the front desk. I stood in the room waiting, trying not to disturb anything and thinking about how great it would feel to take a shower.

A few minutes later she comes back, flops down on the bed and tells me the guy at the desk is, "calling people."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know," she said, frustrated. "I was just really looking forward to watching them. It was keeping me going all day."

We sat there. Then I said the thing I didn't want to say. "Do you want to change hotels?"

"I don't know. I know you'll think it's stupid. I mean... I don't know."

"All right. I'll go see."

Down at the front desk I explained to a nice older man that there was a certain TV network which my wife really wanted - no, needed - to see but we couldn't find it on the set in our room.

"Come, come." he said. We went into another room. There, the front desk guy and I watched as a bellboy went through all ninety three channels.

"I've already tried this," I tried to say.

"It's Okay. Okay."

They kept going anyway. About this time, I thought I heard my wife scream in our room down the hall. I peeked my head out and looked down the hall, but it was empty.

The channels zapped by. Every few seconds I kept seeing quick clips of the show, now long over. News shows were now showing the winners take the stage. It took me just two fly-bys of BBC to learn who won best actress and best supporting.

"I don't think it's here guys."

"Okay okay."

Back at the room, Sarah was sitting on the edge of the bed, flipping channels. Still hoping.

"Any luck?" I asked.

"No."

"Did you scream earlier?"

"Yea. I opened the window and two pigeons flew in here."

I scanned the room. Didn't see any pigeons.

I told her I'd go look for another place. She said no, she'd go, but I had already left.

Back at the desk, I told the guy I was very sorry, but I was going to look for another hotel that was showing the Golden Globes. He just looked at me. So did the bell boy.

"Are you married?" I asked him.

"Yes."

"Then you understand."

The first place I went to was full. I found this out after waiting behind an angry Frenchman at the front desk. He was babbling something about room tax.

The second place had rooms.

"You have cable TV?"

"Yes."

"Do you have a channel called Star World?"

He grabbed a remote and started flipping channels on the TV in the waiting room. Again, I watched them roll by. Me, the new front desk guy and yet another silent bell boy just hanging out, seeing what's on the tube.

"See, my wife... " I started to explain. How to even start? The hell with it. Let them think I was crazy.

We started getting into the high channels and still no Star World. It wasn't looking good. I was thinking about how to break the news. There would be no Golden Globes this year. Then somewhere in the sixties, there it was.

"Wait! Go back."

Yep. We were saved.

Now at our new hotel, TV on, me fresh from a long hot shower.

"Thank you honey," she said.

"No problem."

-Brendan

Games People Play

We slept out in the Thar Desert last night. It was part of a two-day camel safari, which was really quite fun, though I'm pretty sure I didn't actually do a lot of sleeping out there, what with all the sand and the sub-zero temps and the moon as bright as a flashlight in the sky and the foxes watching us from the not-too-far-away ridge.

Anyway, before we all went to sleep (six tourists and four "Camel Men"), our Indian guides taught us some local desert games to play around the campfire. One involved balancing two camel-skin slippers on the edge of a stick, filling them with sand, and then trying to lift the stick in a half-moon arc with one hand while lying face-down. Nobody could do it (except of course Camel Man #1 who taught us the game, who whooped it up every time one of us failed and then promptly sang a song).

Another game was a sort of contortionistic dance that started with Camel Man #2 standing with two hands on an upright stick, then somehow doing sort of an air somersault without taking his hands off the stick or falling over. It made no physical sense to any of us. Nicki, the Australian, fell on both attempts, and the rest of us refused to suffer the same certain humiliation.

The third game was easier, at least in concept. Stand upright in the sand and place one foot over the other knee. Maintaining this position, lean over and touch your nose to the top of a water bottle placed about a foot in front of you, then return upright without falling. Brendan and I were the only tourists to successfully complete this task, and we were both incredibly proud of ourselves. Camel Men are the kind of guys you want to impress.

The fourth game had us doing headstands on a Camel Man #1's turban. If we could scissor our legs in the air without leaning over too much, we passed. Brendan wowed us all with his secret balancing skills that even a couple of the girls didn't possess (I forfeited my turn, fearful that while upside down my sweater would fall and I'd flash everyone around the campfire, particularly Camel Man #4 who never spoke and seemed a little off his rocker to begin with, and you just don't want to give anyone a reason to freak out in the desert, right?).

Then Brendan decided to share one of his own old-faves, the game where you hold one foot with the opposite hand and then jump through the space with the second foot without falling or letting go of your first foot. He can almost always land it and it's a guaranteed crowd-pleaser at barbecues. However, the desert sand made for rather mushy and unpredictable footing, and my poor husband fell on three attempts, finally sitting back down after someone begged him to stop before he broke his leg. Clearly he was a little bummed to have messed up his own game, but the Camel Men thought he was crazy and brave for going all-out like that (they wouldn't try it, for fear of breaking their legs), and congratulated him as if he'd stuck the landing anyway. It was a kind of a triumphant moment for Brendan. It's not every day an Irish kid from the Chicago suburbs gets props from four crazy old camel herders.

-Sarah

The Help

Sarah and I have a love/hate relationship with the waiter working at the guesthouse where we're staying. He is, at the same time, a nice, friendly guy and a complete idiot. It's a rare day indeed when the tea we order is not coffee and the hot water he assured us we would have is not ice cold. Little inconveniences like these are all part of traveling, I know, but sometimes it gets old. I also realize that I sound like I'm just complaining about India. I'm not. I'd complain no matter where I was. You probably would too.

Usually when I'm frustrated with this guy, Sarah defends him, and vice versa. It's a nice balance.

"I asked for fruit salad. This is a potato. "

"Sorry madam. I'll fix it." He leaves.

"Oh honey, maybe he just didn't hear you," I say.

"I wrote it down," she says.

"Oh. Well he's trying."

This morning we ordered two pots of coffee. One black for her and one with milk for me. This was not unusual. We'd ordered the same thing from the same guy for three straight mornings.

A few minutes later, he came back with the pot of black coffee. I figured the milk coffee was on its way. No problem. Ten minutes later, still no milk coffee. When our man came by the table, I asked him about the milk coffee.

"Oh, so you wanted two pots! "

"Yes, just like the day before and the day before that."

"Okay. Okay."

Five minutes pass. He walks up with a pot of coffee. It's black.

"No, no, no my man. Milk coffee. See right here on the menu. Milk coffee. Coffee with milk already in there. Milk coffee."

He looks at me. He isn't sure. He says okay and walks away again.

"Is it me?" I ask Sarah.

"No. It's not you. This guy is... I don't know," she says while sipping her coffee.

It's a beautiful morning. We're sitting at our table enjoying the sun when suddenly out of the corner of my eye I see a gray blur crash down onto our table. Sarah's plate of fruit salad goes flying. She screams. There's a loud screech as I realize a fairly large monkey has just stolen half of Sarah's breakfast and jumped out of sight.

"JESUS CHRIST!!!!" She screams.

We're both on our feet. People are looking at us. I start gathering the fruit strewn across the table in case of another attack.

"It's okay honey. You're all right," I say. She's rattled.

"Your milk," I hear from behind me. It's our waiter. He's just missed the monkey attack and he's wondering why Sarah's breathing heavily. He unscrews the cap. Inside is hot milk.

"OH, COME ON!!!" explodes Sarah.

"I don't know how else to say it my man. Coffee with milk," I say, defeated.

A British woman at the next table walks over with her pot of coffee, unscrewes the cap and points inside, showing our very confused waiter.

"See, like this. Milk coffee," she says.

"Ahhhhh. Coffee milk. Yes, yes. One moment."

"It must be me," I say.

"I don't care. I'm going inside," Sarah says. "These monkeys. It's just too much."

A few minutes later, sitting outside at a different table, the guy brings me a pot of milk coffee. All is right with the world.

-Brendan

Brendan vs. the Food

Back in the States, Brendan hated Indian food. More specifically, he was intimidated by Indian food and said he hated it so he'd never have to eat it. I'm not sure he ever had a bite of tandoori chicken until he met me, and even then I had to drag him in kicking and screaming. My husband likes cheeseburgers and Snickers bars (he actually claims the latter is good for "energy" and "sustenance"). He's not so much of an exotic food fan.

Not surprisingly, Brendan's having a bit of a challenge eating here in India. First of all, he's reluctant to learn his basic Indian food terms. Knowing your paneers and paranthas really makes the ordering process a lot easier, but he doesn't want a lesson from me, nor does he want to remember that "aloo gobi" means "potatoes and cauliflower", which is something he actually likes. I'm not sure why this information isn't sinking in. Each time he looks over the menu it's like the very first meal. He'll claim he has no idea what to order because absolutely no dish is familiar.

"But honey, you like puri bhaji. Remember? You had it the other morning and really liked it. Why don't you order that?" I'll encourage him.

"I just don't know what anything is. I wish I knew what all this stuff was," he'll respond in defeat and push the menu aside. Then I'll order him the puri bhaji and he'll tell me he likes it.

The other problem is the meat. You can't eat beef in India because cows are sacred and people don't put them on menus. That's fine. We knew that already. But Brendan loves meat, so he's always ordering a chicken or lamb dish and thinking it'll be really good. When the dish comes out, it's never good. The chicken hasn't been stripped off the bone, or he can't identify what part of the lamb is actually in the sauce, or the whole thing tastes like rubber (which was actually what he said about his chicken masala last night. "This tastes like rubber."). I keep reminding him that many Indians are vegetarians and perhaps aren't experts at preparing meat for Western tastebuds. He doesn't want to hear that.

I'm hoping the food situation improves for poor Brendan. At least he's got me in the meantime.

-Sarah

Su Doku: The Silent Danger

My wife has a serious Su Doku addiction. In case you are unfamiliar with Su Doku, it's the popular number puzzle game found in the back of newspapers near the crossword puzzle. Twas a time when I was the only one doing them. She would just shake her head and wonder what all the fuss was about. One day, about two weeks ago, I brought home a few Su Doku books and encouraged her to give them a try. One puzzle (she started of with the easy ones) innocently led to another, and then a third. Then she stared taking the books with her when we left the hotel and doing puzzles at meals. Now, it's two puzzles first thing in the morning, two before she goes to sleep, and countless others in between. It's become a problem.

Su Doku is a wedge which has come between us. We never talk anymore. Meals are spent in silence. She hunches over the book, lost in her puzzle. I pout and try to draw her attention by pouring her tea every thirty seconds. She tells me to be quiet.

At least with crossword puzzles, she would ask for my help. We could have conversations stemming from crossword puzzles. Su Doku demands silence. She also never wants my help. She'll figure it out for herself, she says.

Is there anyone I can call about this? A hotline for Su Doku dependency or something?

Is it me? Am I a Su Doku enabler? Maybe I should just take away the books and give her tough love. Make her come off Su Doku cold turkey. It's going to hurt, but it's for the best. Someday she'll thank me.

-Brendan