Now if only...

I'm back in New York. Working at home. Frantically trying to get pages done for a screenplay I'm working on with a friend of mine (I promise, Mozz, soon, very soon.)

And now I have to deal with the landlords.

First it's the bill. They keep adding this 15 dollar charge to our rent. I called, expecting to be on the phone for some time...but they picked up...the charge is removed.

Success!

Now, I have to get someone on the phone to talk about the lease renewal...grr.

The problem is I have to go through this computerized phone tree...and then endless cycles of the same quasi techno hold music.

In order to make things easier for them, maybe for us, we now have to deal with a computer long before we can deal with a human being. Something, though, gets lost in the equation for more efficiency.

I don't know...maybe it's...humanity?

Back to the phone tree.

My Pakistani Serial...

So...I got this job...I'm a writer, right?
Well, one of the things I've written is a 13 part serial for Pakistani TV. It's been shot. It's been made, and it's about to air. The link below is the first trailer for it.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=HiqR04kZlr8

That's right. Written by me.

Now, all those in Pakistan...please, tell me it's good. No. No. Tell me it's GREAT.
Because I get the giggles watching the trailer.

I wrote a car exploding, but I didn't think it would happen! Watch it! A car explodes!

AWESOME.

And for everyone...

I've set what needs to be set...so now people, whether or not they belong to Google, can post a comment.

Including my mom.

And because I listen to my wife in all things...I've put the Umbrella poster back at the top...

Letters to the editor

Just a quick one.
Letters to the editor is a reason I don't think I could live in my home town on a full time adult basis.

In one letter to the editor, one man, whose ultimate point was that everything was falling apart and that's why we need to get back to the word of God, or in this case the original King James Version of the word of God, this man wrote "Global Warming is a sham. Why is it so cold recently?"

Because it's the WINTER?????

Global Warming means the AVERAGE temperature is going up, not that seasons are going to disappear tomorrow.

That's ok. He's believes in the "Word" of God. But just the King James Version. You know, the one that was created 400 years ago for political purposes. Not the one that's like 2000 years old.

Ugh.

I'm not even going to go into the letter to the editor a few months ago that seriously suggested burning Harry Potter books because they taught witchcraft.

Welcome to Middle America.

My only hope is that Middle America is to busy to write in and that it's the crazys with to much time on their hands.

Not all of Middle America wants to burn Harry Potter or wonders why it's so cold in the winter.

Home flat Home.

I'm at my parents house for a few days.

My mom had surgery a week or two ago on this back thing that she has been having problems with. Long time fans might remember a snarky comment in a previous blog this son made about my mom being rebuilt. The rebuilding continues!

My dad travels for work so he's gone for a few days. And since I'm carving out a career sitting on my butt at home, my wife and I figured I could do that in Illinois. So here I am.

I was just at the grocery store picking up some stuff for dinner. It was weird. The grocery store.

Well.

From my perspective it was.

It was a normal grocery store. For the Mid-West. But for those who live in New York City it was acres and acres of so many choices to make, boxes and boxes of pasta, row upon row can goods.

And it wasn't crowded.

And the aisles were wide.

And the lights were bright.

And the staff was cheerful.

Like I said. Weird.

I got outta there real quick.

...after I paid for my food.

To much space is beginning to freak out this New Yorker. I need walls! I need buildings that block out the sky! I need to have people constantly in my way!

All this silence and space! It's enough to drive one MAD!

That said. It's nice to have a break from New York.

Crap. Writing this in the morning again.

I don't know why.

And I don't have much to write about.

Oscars are on tonight, but I can't say I'm excited. I haven't seen many of the movies. I keep wanting to, but my desire to do nothing but stare at the internet has cut into the desire to leave the house. Perhaps I am slowly becoming Agoraphobic. That would be sweet.
Living in a city like New York--it's so easy to get everything delivered.


Actually, I do have to say, one of the things I AM excited about regarding the Oscars: Jon Stewart hosting. I'm by far more interested than that than the movies nominated.

Alright. I'm done.

I have to go to some conference/get together today. Maybe I'll write more about it. Maybe not. It's been fun, but pointless. And the fun hasn't made the pointless worth it.

Yeah.

(Man, I feel like I'm a crappy blogger. Crappy in the sense I'm like every other blogger out there.) Bleh.

Morning.

In a few weeks, I'm heading into rehearsals for my play...Umbrella.

Poster to the left. It's pretty cool.

I have to admit I'm a little nervous. Because...it's an Off-Broadway show.

Off-Broadway! I hear you scream. And then...silence.

Off-Broadway? What's that mean?

It means the kind of contract the theater company has with Equity Actor's Association to pay their actors, the size of the budget for the show, the amount for a ticket, and where the reviews are put into the paper.

It's kind of a big deal.

It's also scary as all hell. Scary because my play is being paid for by someone else's money. Because people are going to be paying a lot more for a ticket than they have for before for a show of mine.

Deep down, I know this is a good play and there are talented people on board. So, I shouldn't be nervous.

But I am. Because I keep thinking about what happens AFTER the show...

I am taking a few steps to mitigate that nervousness.

1. I'm working on another project or two. The major rewrites are done, I may tweak here and there, but, I'm done. So, I'm turning my creative self to something else.

2. I'm not going to read any reviews. Not until after the show opens.

3. I'm going to enjoy rehearsals.

4. And I'm going to talk and sell this show to everyone I know. I want butts in the seats. I'm proud of the work others and myself have done. People need to see this show.

That said. Still nervous. But excited.

SO. Come and see my show. Umbrella. It previews April 11, opening night is April 15th, closing is May 4th.

Go to AlchemyTheatre.org for more info!

Or turn to this blog...I'll tell you more as more happens.

Now. It's finally snowed in New York City.
It's probably going to melt in about 5 hours.
So, I'm going to go play in it while I can.

I'm sure some of you are thinking...

...my god...how many posts did he just put up?

Well. I'm getting rid of my blog at MySpace...and I didn't want to lose all the blogs I had over there (my mom would kill me), so I brought them over here. Besides, does anyone really still use MySpace anymore? It's like SOOO 6 months ago.

Read through them. Play catch up. There are some great little bits of traveling.

And...I have to admit, I've been a bad blogger.

I hope to be a better one. This place seems easier to use. More accessible. My mom can even post.

So. Fans. Old fans. New Fans. I'll blog more here.

Tomorrow, I'll write about the show that I got coming up. Something I've VERY excited about.

Larry

Last one to move, #21...

View From My Apartment...21

Recently...I got back from India, having celebrated my first Diwali there (a few pics will be uploaded), and I was going to write about that.

And then, Thanksgiving happened, so I was going to write about Diwali AND Thanksgiving.

But. Then. I haven't. Not that I won't in the near future. But. Well. See.

Alright. I'm suffering from Momentum. We all have momentum. It's just a question of whether or not it's a moving sort of momentum or a sit and ponder what's coming up next on Turner Classic Movies. I suffer from the later.

Lately, I just haven't been able to get motivated to get up off my ass and go put my ass back down at the keyboard. And I think it's becoming a circular problem, the less time I spend in front of the computer working creates a bigger desire to NOT want to be in front of the computer working. What IS next on Turner Classic Movies...?

I think, honestly, I have become a little afraid. Afraid that I may not be as good as I think I am. Afraid that I won't have any more great ideas. Afraid that I'm to lazy to do this as a career. Afraid that time is running out. Afraid that I won't be able to make the big push that's required to really make writing a CAREER. A living. A life.

And so of course, the easiest thing to do is to do nothing. Well. Not nothing. I AM watching Turner Classic Movies after all....

But it's time for a change. How many times can one watch A Touch of Mink?

Next year I'm proposing not a New Year Resolution, but a New Year Revolution. (Oh, stop rolling your eyes, Butch.) A Revolution, a change of heart, a change of mind. To finally get off my ass and write more, go and see more.

Frankly, to practice what I preach: to write bravely, honestly, and with an open heart.

Oh. Hell. Why am I waiting until next year?

Vintage View #20

View From My Apartment 20

This is just a quick one...

...So. I have a job. Some of you may know about it, others may not. It's a rather silly job as jobs go. I update the rolodex of a CEO of a major corporation. I won't say who, because that wouldn't be right. Let's just say it's an AMazing EXperience and leave it at that.

Basically: I go through the rolodex and call and confirm the information is still up to date.

This job affords me some time to think.

Which I guess is ideal. Though, what would be trully ideal would be the view that is right outside my door: All of Manhattan. But...no. I get an office with no windows.

But I have time to think.

And one of the things that I was thinking about was things I've said in job interviews. One thing pops to mind and it's particularly relevant to the job I have now.

I have said, "I like the office environment. It's a good fit."

Now. Let's be honest. I was lying. Of course I was lying. Who FITS an office environment? I was lying because I want the job...not because I want to update rolodexes, but because I want the pay check.

Who fits an office environment? And I'm not talking about the people who are doing something they care about that happen to work in an office, I'm talking about the paper shufflers, the phone answers, and the copy makers...Why, why, why?

I guess it's the paycheck too.

I have had some office jobs that really are about collecting paper from a group of people, putting into one form and then sending it out to a different group of people. I am just a funnel. Well. No. I'm the guy that operates the funnel that is the computer.

And when this world becomes paperless...I'll be doing the same thing, just not touching paper, which sort of further removes me one more step from reality.

I don't know for certain what the people on my floor do. I know they answer phones. They take messages. And I see them typing. But I don't know WHAT they are typing. The whole floor, save for the executives are just made of Admins. But what are they doing in there, in their offices and cubicles?

Me? I'm calling two thousand names asking: Is this you? Is this still your number? Do you still live here? And what exactly is YOUR job title?

It's a living.

#19, I have a Syndrome, Vintage View!

The View From My Apartment 19

Sorry, fans, I haven't been here for you…I know, I know, you've all been crying in the dark, desperate for the next blog, and I have let you down.

But, I have a good excuse. It's all because…

I Have A Syndrome!

It's true. I have a syndrome. It's a called Wolf-Parkinson-White Syndrome. It's a syndrome of the heart which affects the process of the electrical signals between the upper and lower chambers of the heart. More on that later.

I've had this thing with my heart ever since high school. Every so often it would suddenly start beating faster, sometimes after I did something strenuous…You're all thinking, duh, Larry, my heart does the same thing. When this happens, it's called tachycardia, basically, the heart races and it doesn't slow down, like in normal hearts.

At first it was scary. Suddenly, the heart is doing something you don't expect. Or want. Overtime, however, I got a little used to it. It became a nuisance. One of those things. Hopefully it will go away…

What I feel for a moment is clenching of the heart and it suddenly bumps up how many beats per minute. This accelerated rate generally stays around for about an hour, and then, a clench, and then it's back to normal. And let me tell you…it feels SO good when it goes back to normal….

But Why Did You Go To the Doctor Now?

Well.

A few weeks ago Deepti and I went upstate to go see a friend of ours, Tommy Schoffler, in a show. It was also a great excuse to get out of the city. (One does have to wonder, do I spend ANY time in New York? Not when I can help it.)

At dinner, before the show, sitting beside Lake Champlain, chatting, having a beer, suddenly, I felt it. The clench. And my heart started racing. When I work out, I generally go up to 160, this was faster than that.

There IS a danger here with the accelerated beat. The biggest problem…well…the biggest problem would be heart attack, but mine doesn't beat THAT fast. The problem with the accelerated beat is that if the upper and lower chambers aren't working together, and they are beating fast, it doesn't provide enough time for blood to enter into the heart. It can cause dizziness, fainting, etc. And yes, in extreme cases, i.e., rare, a heart attack.

When it happens, I generally try different things that in my mind cause it to go back to normal. I either try to take deep calming breaths or I try the opposite, I hold my breath. My thinking was that I was trying to recreate whatever it is that caused it to start…In the end, I think what happened was one time I held my breath and the heart returned to normal and it's something that I thought I had done. Silly self-medicating Larry.

Anyway. That night it kept going, and going. All through dinner, and I thought, well, it will stop during the show, and then all through the show, I'm breathing deep, holding my breath. It went all the way through the show. We had drinks after…all through drinks. Five hours later, as I was lying down in bed, clench…and ah, a return to normal.

Through out the night, Deepti kept feeling my heart race, looking at me, I would nod all calm like. She said, "You're going to a doctor."

I stamped my feet, crossed my arms, pouted on the train back to New York, doing my best to look all sour at her.

Doctor Number One—this is short

I made an appointment to see my doctor. I should actually say the doctor that my health insurance assigned me to, because I've never seen him, so really, could he be mine?

I make the long walk to the end of the block…yes…his office is actually attached to my apartment building. The office was small and in some need of updating, some paint, carpet, etc. And the Doctor was nice, we chatted, he listened to my heart, we both knew he was just a step in the chain.

He decided to order an ECG (echo cardiogram), which was done there, much to my surprise. In the back room. Among the file cabinets. In the middle was one of those doctor tables with the paper. The woman at reception came in, had me take off my shirt, and hooked me up to the machine…which looked like it came out of the 1980's. Some of the leads had to be attached with tape, for which she apologized when she ripped them off.

I made an attempt at a joke, "Yeah, you didn't become a nurse to torture people."

"What?"

I repeated my joke. She smiled, "Oh, I'm not a nurse; I'm just the office manager."

With that, I took my abnormal ECG and got a referral for a cardiologist.

Doctor Number Two

I have to admit, I was a little nervous to go to the Cardiologist. Ok. More than nervous. Anxious. This of course is the perfect state to be in when you're seeing someone about your heart. But I couldn't get over this idea: this is about my heart, my heart, a pretty important organ to the body. One that HAS to keep working.

Images of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom passed before my eyes.

I was perfectly happy just ignoring this thing, it only happens once or twice a year, if that. And, as long as I didn't know anything about it, it wasn't life threatening. I was wrapped in my ignorance is bliss and I have to admit, I like it.

But, I got busted. Deepti felt it. It lasted five hours. It was time.

Yesterday, I finally made it to my Cardiologist.

In reception, there were a few patients…average age: 1 Million. And here I was throwing off the curve. I felt…I'm not sure how I felt, but I had a sinking feeling. Like: wow, I'm here getting treated. Wow, I'm really not as invulnerable as I thought. Wow, thank god I have insurance to pay for this.

Finally, my name is called and I'm shown into a room. Small room. With other equipment that a nurse is using. I meet with the doctor, he's funny, he listens to the story that I have told again and again. He nods. He decides to do three tests.

Another ECG.

And a sonogram of the heart. I wait in line. There are four old ladies a head of me. I feel a little foolish. One woman, whose name is Barbara; I know this because her Daughter in Law has to shout for Barbara to hear. She was frail, walked slowly into the room before me. When she came out, with her tiny bony hand pointed into the room, telling me it was my turn. I think I joined a club that day.

Off with the shirt, onto the table, technician sticking the sonogram wand hard against my chest. The machine flicked and then there on the screen…my heart, a fleeting black and white image, beating, ventricles opening and closing, opening and closing.

I have never felt so exposed.

That done…

Heart Monitor

The last thing was the heart monitor. I knew I was going to get one attached. I used to work in the cardiology department of a health clinic in Minneapolis. I knew they would want to observe and record my heart…I just didn't realize how many wires would be attached.

Again, off with the shirt, and out with the razor. Razor!? Yep. I may not have a lot, but, she had to shave off some chest hair. That done, she started slapping on the leads. One, two, three…seven leads, all going to this device on that gets hung like a fanny pack. Stylin...!

And it's not like the wires are short so you can hide them, they dangle, they hang, and I'm all taped up to them.

I have to wear the monitor for 24 hours; I'm wearing it right now.

I am an escapee from sci-fi cautionary tale of medical science.

Treatment?

So, Larry, what are the treatments for WPW?

I'm glad you asked. Basically, two treatments. WPW is caused by an extra conduction pathway in the heart, so the electrical signals get a little messed up and the timing between the upper and lower chambers of the heart get goofy. One treatment is medication. The other catheter ablation.

Catheter, isn't that thing that goes up your pee-pee when you are in the hospital so they collect your pee so you don't pee all over their sheets? Yes. But this is different.

This catheter would go up my femoral artery, the big one in the thigh, and go up to the heart—gross—and then a little radiofrequency energy (so says the American Heart Association website says) destroys the extra conduit, curing the patient. This would be me. Let's up I'm unconscious, because, quite frankly the idea of a long thin wire going up my leg to my heart freaks me out a little. It's like a bizarre way of killing someone out of a James Bond movie.

So, those are the options. Most likely it will be number two, as medication for something that only happens maybe once or twice a year is silly.

Hey, Are They Any Famous People "Afflicted" With WPW?

Yes!

Tony Blair.
Meat Loaf.
Marilyn Manson.

So…

So…I'm hooked up the monitor which will be dropped off on Tuesday, and then the Doctor will look through it…and we will figure out the next step.

But the good news…I'm not dying, I don't need a heart transplant—but I'm sure if I did, someone out there would offer, and I thank you, but, please, put your hearts away, you might need them later.

Stay tuned…

#18, View, Vintage...

The View From My Apartment 18

But, Larry, Didn't you Just Do A Whole Series of Blogs on Traveling? Why more?

It's true, fans, I just had a vacation. Two weeks away from the drudgery and the constant sensory assault that can be New York City. Week One was spent in the lovely small town of Paris, France whilst week Two was spent in my hometown, the relentlessly growing Normal, Illinois.

(Yes. My hometown is named Normal. If you want to make a big deal of it, I have a knuckle sandwich waiting for you. A knuckle sandwich made with Grade A beef, hot mustard, and cheese. Do you really want to mess with that?)

What do you do in Paris? What everyone else does...stand in line.

We got into Paris early on a Monday morning, after a not what we expected flight from JFK on American Airlines. We HAD expected free drinks, like on most international flights. I have to say most now, where before I would have said all, because American Airlines does not give you free booze like everyone else. Though, one steward was nice and gave us a free bottle of wine to go with our "food." Oh, and no personal TV screens...I felt like I was back in the 1980s.

One of the reasons for going to Paris, as if one needs a lot of reasons, was because my sister in law, Swati, has just finished up her classes in an art school there and we weren't sure for how long she was planning on staying after. So, we took this moment to go.

Swati has been there for over three years, learning the language, getting to know her way around. Now that she was finished with school, she was carving out a career, finding work. She is a painter, dancer and now getting more into installation work. I mentioned the language thing, right? Because, yeah, it helps a lot in France.

She also helped get us a place to crash while we were there, a one bedroom apartment right near a Metro station. And a cheap place to crash...

Her boyfriend, Freddo, is a painter who lives near an area called Montmarte, a hill that over looks the city. A hill where Picasso studied. A hill made famous in the movie Amelie. It's made up of those twisty tiny streets, cafes, and little shops. Oh, and it's near the site of the now legendary tourist trap Moulin Rouge.

We trudged behind Freddo and Swati as we made our way up the hill, sweating, breathing deeply, like I said, it was quite a hill. Basilique du Sacre-Coeur sits at the top, overlooking the city, built in the shadow of both the Franco-Prussian war and the French Revolution of 1870, and at it's foot steps one can sit and look at the city, enjoy the sun, and listen to two guys playing guitar, singing English songs, trying to make a living. The view is breathtaking. The entire city seems to be at your feet. It was where we first saw the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame...and, really, the whole city...stretching forever.

That night, Freddo and Swati take us to the river Seine, to get a view of the Eiffel Tower. It's about 11 PM. The tower is lit and it is staggeringly beautiful. I just kept taking picture after picture, almost the same one...somehow I wanted to capture the same simple beauty of the Tower in a picture. But I couldn't. I don't think anyone can.

So ended the first day...

We didn't have a plan per se but a list of things that we wanted to do...So each day was sort of up in the air...and on the agenda for day two...a tour of the river Seine...

New York City had been in the 90s when we left...but Paris, ah, Paris was going to be in the 60s! And raining. Don't think that rains spoils Paris. It doesn't. It makes it your own city. Rain clears out the crappy tourist, makes them run. The rain washes away all of the affectation, makes the place more real, because it's not so perfect. A rainy day in Paris is like a beautiful girl who suddenly has her make up washed off, really all the more beautiful.

It drizzled constantly on our boat ride from the Eiffel Tower to Notre Dame and back, French history warbled out of the speaker on the boat, followed by English we couldn't quite hear. But it sort of didn't matter. Deepti and I just watch these marvelous buildings slide by...and occasionally Deepti would get the people on the bridges above us or on the boats near us to wave.

After: we decided to walk from the Tower to Notre Dame, as I wanted to see inside. On the way there, as we crossed the street with a 50ish looking woman, she exclaimed something...in some language that wasn't French. We looked and in her hand was a thick gold wedding band for men. She pointed at the ground...claiming she just found it. Deepti and I were quite thrilled for her, what luck, we said, and we kept walking, the 50sih looking woman a head of us.

Then, she turned back. She handed Deepti the ring, it didn't fit her it seems. Wow, we thought. Cool, we felt. Ah, Paris. As the woman walked away...

Then, she turned back. Let me tell you...the sign for begging, it's universal. The woman wanted some Euros for a sandwich. Ah...Paris. Deepti gave her a few...the woman felt it wasn't enough for a sandwich, Deepti offered her the ring, "Sell it, use the money." The woman waved her off...Now, at this point, I was getting a little annoyed, sure, fine, con us with the ring, but then don't keep asking for MORE money...

Realizing she wasn't going to get anything more out of us...our Gypsy friend, as we later found out, moved on. We continued our walk down the Seine, laughing at the little theater that happened to us. We only gave her 3 Euros and it was quite a show.

We cross another street and coming towards us...is another lady...also about 50...Deepti sees in her hand...a gold ring, palmed, ready...And behind us, a young lady in her 20s...

We finally arrive at Notre Dame and we get into our first line of our vacation. The sun had come out and brought the tourists...The line moved fast, sadly, not a sign of what was to come. Inside...

I want it to be something special. I'm not one for organized religion, but I do believe in holy places...those places where you can let your mind relax and perhaps get into touch with something higher. Currently inside the Notre Dame, for a few Euros, you can purchase postcards to commemorate your visit.

The place is filled with tourists who look at this holy place with marvelous stained glass windows and long history through the lens of their cameras or video recorders, where they will experience their trip later in front of their computers. The great church echoed with the sound of cameras clicking, people talking and kids running.

As Yoda might say, disappointing it was.

The next day came a marvelous opportunity to line up: The Louvre.

The Louvre, all you Da Vinci Coders don't have to listen to this, was at one point one of the palaces of the King of France. In fact, it's original stone foundation, which you get to see, is from the 12^th Century. However, currently it's biggest claim to fame: The Mona Lisa. And when you mention the Mona Lisa to my wife, she rolls her eyes, and then demands to know...why is this painting famous?

Because it is.

So. We wait in line to get tickets into the museum, which, we learned is also the largest museum in the world and if you spent 1 minute in front of each painting, it would take you four months to get through. We had several hours. My wife gets punchy in museums after a while. Trust me, it isn't pretty, but it can be funny.

We get our ticket. Well. Truth be told. I get my ticket. Deepti is going to use Swati's student pass to get into the museum. We show our tickets to the busy ticket lookers...busy chatting with each other, and they barely glance at me or my wife's fake ID. And INTO the museum we go.

We take our time through the museum. Plenty to see. And some of those moments... "Oh...this painting is...here." The Louvre is mostly paintings from before the Impressionist movement, a lot of Greek and Roman, Medieval and Reniassance work. A sort of History of Art.

You could spend four months there. You might lose your mind...but you could.

So. We finally arrive at it. The Mona Lisa. It's held in a very large wall in the center of a very large room, behind thick plexiglass. In front: a large horde of people with cameras and video cameras...clicking and recording away. Now, in theory, you aren't supposed to use flashes...but that didn't stop, nor were they stopped, the mob of people trying to get a photo of the Mona Lisa. The tiny Mona Lisa. It's a small painting.

Now...I don't know if this is true, but has been told to me by someone from the inside, Swati, that in fact the painting that is in the Louvre for display is actually a copy. One copy of several. Really, why show the real one is a fake will do?

It's not hard to make a copy...there were tons in the gift shop...

We left the room...allowing the tourists to jockey for position in front of the fake. We walked on, to go see some real paintings, in peace.

Our next opportunity for lining up came at Versailles. But this time we brought two people who didn't mind standing in line...Swati and Freddo. We had taken the train from Paris, about 30 minutes, and gotten out of the station, walked five minutes and there we were. From Louis XIV to now a town and a train station had sprung up.

We walked over the uneven cobblestone drive way, that could hold a football field to the line. A long line. A very long line. Well, I'm not actually sure HOW long the line is...it ran from outside to somewhere inside the palace. It was a long line. That wasn't moving very fast. Swati wisely pointed out, and I pass on this hint for fellow Parisan travelers...after 4 PM, the cost goes down. She suggested that Deepti and I should go look at the gardens, while they wait in line and get tickets for the tour.

Happy to not stand in a line...we walked out back to the gardens...

...that go on FOREVER. The gardens...designed for one man are...it's a park. A big park. With a gorgeous fountain, labyrinths, and a man made lake. In a theater history class we were told that Louis XIV would stage mock sea battles on the lake, and I remember thinking, it couldn't have been all that great, I bet it was a small lake.

It is NOT a small lake. It's pretty big. In the shape of a small T, but, big nonetheless.

It took us twenty minutes to get down to the lake from Versailles. And another twenty minutes back up once the tickets had been purchased. I have a feeling the King didn't have to do all that walking. I know I wouldn't have if I was the King. It's good to be the King.

Swati and Freddo gave us our tickets and we were off...

The palace was mobbed...it could have been the French Revolution all over again...but...no. Tourists, again looking at the world through a viewfinder, proof that they were there I suppose. In the meantime, their kids ran on the wrong side of the ropes and played with the irreplaceable furniture.

The most breathtaking room was the recently open Gallery of Mirrors. One side were mirrored doors probably twelve feet high and on the other side large windows overlooking the gardens. It was hear the King would great guests and throw balls. It was beautiful.

After our trip through the palace, one has to wonder what the Kings and Queens would think of their home being turned into a tourist destination, we borrowed a rowboat and toured around the man made lake...

The next day's standing in line was at the Eiffel Tower, we were finally going to go up the top. This was the day before Bastille Day, July 14^th, their Independence Day, so the line was particularly long and slow. At one point, we weren't sure if they took cards or not (they do) so I went off to look for an ATM. One guy pointed a direction so off I went. 15 minutes later, I decided, I'm not going to find it. So, I turned around and came back. My wife had only moved 20 feet.

She went off. She was smart, she asked some South Asian guys where there was an ATM. She found it, eventually, but it took her some time.

So, please note: it's hard to find an ATM around the Eiffel Tower. Be prepared.

Two and a half hours later, we were finally in the elevator....to the second floor...and another line...to go to the very top. While we were waiting for the next elevator...we looked around...Something that Freddo had told us early in our trip, but we didn't quite see, he called Paris a grey city, because there wasn't a lot of color...and it's true. All around the tower was the same color, different shades, but it was all grey.

Finally, we go to the next elevator and up we went...to an even grander view of the grey city. It had been cloudy and wet all week, but that day it was perfect, warm, sunny and not a cloud in the sky. We roamed around the upper deck, trying to find all the places that we had been at...it was easy to do...and then...

We waited in line to go back down to the second floor...

And waited in line to go back down to the ground...

We couldn't spend more time at the Tower, we had dinner plans, and that's my only regret, not spending more time on the First or Second level of the Eiffel Tower...

What I thought would be our last day of standing in line was for the Comedie-Francaise...On Bastille Day, this 400 year old theater, renowned for putting on the works of Moliere...like...when he wrote them...gives away free tickets to the afternoon performance. So...we got in line at 10:30 AM. You would think it was like a rock concert...people were already ahead of us in line, and the tickets weren't going to be released until 1. And it was just like a rock concert...people did their best to get a little bit of an edge to move up...when there was movement, taking a little bit more of a step than someone else...slowly moving up the ranks.

It didn't really matter anyway. There were more than enough seats...Swati, Freddo, Deepti and I sat in this gorgeous red theater, it didn't look a day over 200. The play was Moliere's Le Misanthrope. And I couldn't remember if I had read it or not. I had read so many one summer they blended together...

The play started...of course, it was in French. But I kept thinking...it's a comedy, comedy is sort of universal, we'll be able to figure out what's going on.

By intermission, I had changed my mind. I didn't know what was going on, I figured out who was who, but that was it. And it wasn't a comedy. My luck: they do the only play of Moliere's that's not really a comedy. Deepti and I decided to leave.

Swati and Freddo were enjoying it immensely so...we left them to their own enjoyment.

We found a different place to have enjoyment: the French Café. And no lines. I have to admit, I could get used to the Café like style. Small tables, out on the wide sidewalk, positioned to people watch, and drinking espresso. Or beer. Or wine. And eating great food.

A week zoomed by in Paris. I haven't even really had a chance to tell you about the walking, the trains, the trip to Swati's Art school (in a quiet suburb of Paris). Or even the morning breakfast's at McDonald's where they serve espresso. But this is only supposed to be a blog...

But I will tell you of our final line in Paris. The airport. American Airlines. A long line. To the first counter. "Where has your luggage been?" asked the guy looking at my passport. "With me?" To my wife, "Where has your luggage been?" My wife looked at him, "With me?" He cleared us. A step forward to the check in counter. Then, over to security...A tearful good bye with Swati—she had a busy week as well, she was working doing interviews while finding time to squeeze in time with us, and then we stand in another line for security. Then a line for immigration. Then the metal detector. Then they wanted to look in my wife's bag. Then my bag. (In the meantime, our plane is boarding, but there is no sense of hurry from the French Woman taking everything out of my wife's bag.) And then...to the bathroom. Ah HAH! No line. Well. For me. But my wife, alas, a line.

And then...to the plane...and a very fast small line...and onto the plane...that still didn't serve us free booze.

And then...Normal

My mother invited Deepti and I down to Normal, IL for a week, to celebrate my wife's birthday and to spend some time with the family. We had one day in between Paris and Normal. Quickly repacking...well...throwing in dirty laundry and presents...we jumped back onto the plane.

Bloomington/Normal is a college town of about 120,000 people two hours south of Chicago. My family has lived there since 1980 and my parents have been in their current home for just over twenty years now. It's just a little over time...the most recent big change...my room has been converted into a guest room. Gone are the two twin beds, replaced by double bed. Which, being married, I suppose is for the best.

And while it may seem to be a respectable guest room...the Space Shuttle mural suggests otherwise.

The first thing I always notice when I get our of the airport is how quiet everything is, how still. It's then I realize how noisy New York City is constantly. It becomes background in the city, but it never goes away...noise, movement, rushing.

There's a lot of land in my hometown. It's mostly farms around the city, but they are beginning to be bought up and cut up into new subdivisions. With new houses come new stores, new churches and new school.

East of the city is a brand new kind of farm. A wind farm. They have already put up over 100 of these giant windmills, over 400 feet tall at the blades. The land is so flat you can see them for miles, circling up and down the horizon. More are to be added. If it's put on your farm land, the company that builds and operates them will pay you around 5000 dollars a year. Just for having it. Some farmers are pretty happy, some, and some small towns, don't want the wind farms. Perhaps...well...I don't know. The amount of land you trade for the money, it would never earn you 5 grand a year. And besides if you had 10 on your land...

We only had a few things on our agenda to do, much like Paris, but, actually, we had to organize things a little bit more. My wife wanted to go swimming, I hadn't gone swimming in 15 years, so that required not only a purchase of a suit for her, but also for me. We were going to see the Illinois Shakespeare Festival. We were going to throw a birthday party, and finally, I had to help trim the trees in my parent's yard. Adventure!

I realize it is challenging for a women to find the right swimsuit. Or at least, I realize that now. I found mine in about 30 seconds. I found the men's suits. Found a color and size I liked and then...I was done.

Deepti on the other hand...it was more involved. Perhaps if we had started earlier in the season it would have been easier. More of a selection available. Who knows. What I do know? We went to every store that just might carry a swim suit. From store to store, my wife would find the right section and begin to grope and poke at the suits trying to find the right one. Finally, success.

My wife was excited about going swimming. She hadn't really learned and she hadn't gone in a long time. She wanted to practice, she wanted to get more comfortable in the water.

But, much to her disappointment, swimming would have to wait until the next day.

We went swimming only twice this trip. The first time I had some bad problems with water plugging up my ears. The second time...my wife realized: it's a public pool, with a lot of kids...who knows what fluid lurks in the water...

I had an epiphany while trimming the trees in my parent's back yard. While I like living in a large city, not have to own a car, can get any sort of food I want, large book stores, I realized that I missed living in a small city, having a nice sized house with a large backyard. Sure, I would have to do things like stand on a ladder as it wobbled on a branch in order to reach an even higher dead limb and then drag it to the curb...but as I was throwing a branch on the garbage pile, I realized, I want this.

Now before my parents start searching the classifieds for a starter home in Normal, IL, I want to be clear, I don't want it yet. I'm still happy slogging away in New York City. But...I have an idea of what I want to slog away for...

Deepti also had an epiphany. As she was putting the branches on the trash pile she realized what a big city girl she is...and then stopped putting branches on the pile.

We have some things to work out.

My quick points of the Shakespeare Festival:

1. Much Ado About Nothing...if you are going to make something bland...don't bother.
2. Love Labor's Lost...surprisingly excellent.
3. Henry V...delivered with all the passion of someone running for office. For the third time.

The party done, the kite flying done, the fear of swimming in a public pool firmly rooted, it was time to go...

It had been a really great week. While Paris was beautiful and romantic, it was a lot of walking. And Normal, IL may not get many...or any...points for being beautiful...it does require a car to get around and that helped a lot these poor hips of mine.

And I have to admit, I like being home for a little bit in the summer, when the corn is taller than me, wind blowing in my face, and I can see for miles and miles...with no urban sprawl...(though perhaps now...suburban sprawl.) I know I'm being sentimental...but it was good to be home and do...nothing.

And for that...thanks Mom and Dad.

Alright. Another blog done. And I don't have any travels coming up, so maybe I'll write something untravel related. Of course, there is a weekend train trip the wife and I are talking about...hm...

The View #17, still Vintage!

A View From My Apartment 17

Hello my children! Gather around Grandpa Larry as he completes his tale of his trip to India. Quickly! Before it disappears into the depths of his hazy memory! It seems like the trip was SO long ago now...a distant memory...but still...a tale that he should finish...so his wife and his mother will not bother him any longer. I believe in some circles it is called motivation...Come! Listen! Before I forget more!

My Wife Goes to Pakistan...maybe...

We return home from Bombay after a whirl wind trip to the movie capital of the world...(If you go by sheer number of movies made, Bollywood CRUSHES Hollywood. Sure, if you go a silly thing like Box Office numbers, it's a little different...)

Deepti is an actor. She and I have both done work for a cable channel in Pakistan, thanks to our friend Mehreen Jabbar. Mehreen is a filmmaker based in New York City who was making TV for consumption in Karachi. She, Deepti and I have worked on a few projects together. In fact, Mehreen has gotten me two commissions to write TV serials for Pakistan. (I'm closing in on finishing #2! It's a 600 pages script! I think I may die).

Deepti has done two serials for Pakistan, both filmed in New York, and they seem to like her. In fact, there's a teenager in Pakistan that is a big fan of my wife's work. It's weird.

Before our trip to India, a producer at the cable channel found out that Deepti was going to be in that part of the world, and asked if she would be interested in doing a serial while she was there. My wife, who never likes to turn down and opportunity to work, said yes. The idea was to shoot part of the serial in Australia and then finish it up in Pakistan. Deepti was excited: she had never been to either place.

Now is the time for a little history. Some of you may know this, others may not. Pakistan and India...they don't get along. Well, I should say their governments don't get along. In fact, some might say: they hate each other. Border disputes are common; the territory of Kashmir is HIGHLY contested. Now these two countries used to be ONE country (fans of the film Gandhi know what I'm talking about.) Though before that, it was an area of smaller city states, before the British came in...It was called Hindustan.

When the country finally gained it's independence from Britain (Go Gandhi!), there were troubles from within. Muslims and Hindus...well, sometimes they don't get along. In the end, much to Gandhi's disappointment, the country was divided. Pakistan and India. And the two have not been...friendly since.

As a side note, and you know how I feel about side notes: the embassies in New York City are back to back.

So, because the countries don't like each other, even though the citizens share a spoken language, heritage and, until fairly recently, a common history, it is difficult for one to get in without the proper visas. And the visas are hard to get.

At times it seems, my wife was the only one working towards getting her into Pakistan. It seems the production staff had never tried, and never did any research. My wife did all that. Even while we were traveling into Rajasthan, Deepti was on the internet communicating with the production staff, finalizing the contract and finding out what needed to be done to get the visa. (Every village seemed to have an internet café, but not necessarily paved roads.)

In the end: it was on the side of the producers in Pakistan. They had to go to a government security office and get a form that basically would say that Deepti isn't a criminal, she isn't a terrorist and that she was of no threat. It would take about five to six weeks to process and she would get the visa. Shooting was supposed to start in about two weeks. A problem. Which, of course, could have perhaps been avoided if the producers had done any of the research.

But why cry about spilt milk?

A change of plans. Now, they were going to film in Australia and then to Thailand!

And then ANOTHER change of plans! They were just going to film in Australia. So, Deepti just had to get the Australian visa (and she only had to do a phone interview to do that) and then she was off.

I'll let Deepti tell of her adventures in Australia...shooting the series, seeing old friends, getting Chicken Pox...

Jantar Mantar

But, before Deepti went away, we were able to do some site seeing. There was one site in particular that I wanted to see: Jantar Mantar, an 18^th century astronomical complex in the heart of Delhi.

The complex has is made of what look like strange sculptures but are in fact astronomical tools. The most recognizable is the giant sundial, over 100 feet fight high and accurate to the minute.

There are other...for a lack of a better term, machines, there that can be used to predict the motions of the moon, planets and the sun. These devices are made from a red stone topped with white lime stone. Precise marks are inscribed. These are like any other scientific machines, just made from stone and you climb around in them.

The area is enclosed, you have to pay to get in. Just like the Taj Mahal, if you are Indian you get a deal, me, I had to pay 100 rupees. Which, well, is about 2 bucks. So, it's still a deal. But, Deepti, she had to pay 10 rupees. Which is a much better deal. We momentarily thought about trying to sneak me in, but then we realized...I don't really look Indian. So, we abandoned that plan.

It was a bright, cool, day. One of those days you just want to hang out and enjoy. Jantar Mantar, walled off from the city, was quiet, peaceful. Couples were sitting on the grass and enjoying the stillness. In fact, it was the first time I really found a place in Delhi that was still—no rushing of crowds, no beggars, no one trying to sell me something. It was just...the place, the grass, and the sun.

We began to move to the first sculpture...no...device...no...machine. We moved to the first thing. It was about twenty feet high, a long stairway in the center and two half circles curving down to the ground. I couldn't tell you what it was for, but...I loved it. I was fascinated.

I've always been a sucker for anything space related. When I was a kid, I was fascinated by space travel and exploration, I soaked up the history, I even went to Space Camp. Though strangely, while I was interested, I never really got into astronomy. I liked it, took a class, but I never went beyond the simple telescope my parents got me for Christmas. I would take it out occasionally, every so often looking at the moon or a star...which would turn out to be Saturn. I was a haphazard Astronomer.

I think I like to hear about it...

Anyway...So, while I was doing my best to figure out what this particular building was used for, a 60 year old man limped over to us. He explained to us that he was an employee of the complex, and wondered if we had any questions. My Super-Ego whispered in my head: you don't have any questions! You're a smart guy! There's a plaque. Read the plaque!

My wife, however, had the good sense to say yes. My Super-Ego crossed his arms and became petulant...but silent.

The man took us to each building. The largest by far, and in the center of the complex was the sundial. My Super-Ego: Duh, I knew that one. It was large triangle, about 100 feet high and on the ground on either side of the triangle were markings... The man pointed to the shadow and asked us the time...it was off from Deepti's watch. By about 30 minutes. He smiled and explained...The sundial was locale time...if adjusted for longitude...it was right, to the minute.

The next building was a round, two stories with what seemed like windows all around it. There was nothing inside the building, it was empty, no floors or anything. This was used for the phases of the moon.

The last one he showed us was a monument that was dug into the ground, like an empty swimming pool, curved with metal rods in certain places, this was used to help establish a child's horoscope. Then he said, this is the only one that no longer works. My head tilted, didn't work? There were no moving parts. Then he pointed to the buildings outside of the complex to the east and the west. Because of their height, they block certain important parts of the sky, making it impossible for this particular machine to work to its fullest. Modern life encroaching in on the past...

At the end...the man reminded us...he was an employee there, and he was paid a salary...but if there was anyway we could see to...you know...

Information does not come with out a price. 50 rupees.

The Coat and Mummyji

Before I left India, I wanted a Nehru jacket. It's that jacket that doesn't have a collar, with buttons that go all the way to the top. It just looked cool. At least on Nehru.

Of all the things that I wanted in India this was it. A jacket. A lovely jacket. )I like jackets. So, cut me some slack.)

Deepti and I spent a few days together shopping in Delhi before her flight to Australia. We found a few...but they were too big. We kept looking. We found presents for friends and family, but no jacket. How could we not find a Nehru jacket in Delhi?

Finally, we ran out of time, Deepti had to go. We kissed good bye and off she went to the land down under.

Which meant, I was home with my in-laws. Alone.

Getting married isn't just getting a wife, it's also getting another set of parents who will feed you. It's awesome. (and feed I did, I must say.)

Mummyji liked the fact that I liked Indian food, and that I would keep eating. And eating. Now...the thing is if you say no, I don't want any more, that doesn't mean they won't give you more. In fact, you will kept being offered and given food. One no isn't enough. You have to say no repeatedly. Or more delicious foods will arrive. Hot, fried delicious foods.

Deepti gone, and Daddyji back to work, it was me and Mummyji. She played catch up in the house, that silly old wedding was a distraction to getting things done in the house. I was content for a little bit to read, just to sit and read and not meet anyone.

In the end though...there was the jacket.

Mummyji likes to shop. That is a fact. That the Sun will rise and set, my mother in law will shop. She was excited about finding the Nehru jacket. It became a quest.

We got a driver and went to various markets. One was this lovely outdoor market, geared towards tourists. A wide open walk way, with various little shops. Even a food court representing different foods from all around India. Mummyji and I made it around to every shop. No jacket. Though, that didn't stop us from buying. I got a marble elephant for a friend, and, finally, found the marble Taj Mahal for our home—a painting of the Taj on a piece of marble. Mummyji found some things for my niece and something for my wife.

Onto the next market. And then the next. And the next. We started asking, do you have any Nehru jackets? They would show us what they have, and I would just shake my head...all of them were without sleeves. Not what I wanted. We pressed on.

Soon, I learned something. Language is a finny thing. I kept asking for a Nehru jacket, and I kept getting ones without sleeves. And I knew ones WITH sleeves existed, but I was amazed we couldn't find any. I mention this to Mummyji. Why weren't we finding any Nehru jackets with sleeves? Because jackets don't come with sleeves.

Er?

In India, coats have sleeves, jackets are sleeveless. Let that be a warning to those who are traveling to India. Language isn't always what you think it is, even if you are speaking the same language.

P.S.—I got my Nehru...coat.

Going to America

The time had come. Three and a half weeks in India. Meeting a whole new part of my family, seeing a whole new country. And I was ready to go. I think I had had enough culture shock or something. It was time to go home.

Ah, sweet British Airways...

Having said my goodbye's to Mummyji, Daddyji and I got into a car and headed out to the airport. I think I had been to this airport 15 times since I had arrived in Delhi. To pick people up, to fly out of...so many times...I think the beggars recognized me.

Daddyji dropped me off, waiting for me to check in. Everything was fine. I had time to go through security, board and then, as the schedule said, plenty of time in Heathrow for my flight back to New York. I waved a final good bye to Daddyji—he couldn't come inside the airport without paying, I headed into the airport.

Where I waited.

And waited.

And waited yet again.

It seems the flight was delayed. Imagine my surprise.

Finally, we boarded the plane...I got my window seat near the bulkhead...plenty of leg room, I learned that lesson on the first flight. I settled in for my flight...only beginning to panic a little bit...my few hours of leisure time at Heathrow were evaporating....

And indeed...it dwindled to...me rushing through the airport with only 30 minutes to get to my plane. I was hoping to have had time to buy liquor at the duty free shop, booze for you all...but...alas, you will have to complain to British Airways...

And then onto the next plane...

On the leg from Delhi to Heathrow, I had my last bit of Indian food for that trip. A simple curry. Then, for the next meal, somewhere over the Atlantic, the menu changed. I had my first taste beef in three weeks. Suddenly, my whole palette had to change...back... To something a little less complicated, more direct than anything I had eaten for almost a month.

It was a taste of home. A taste that...Ok. I'll put it this way: I generally tell people I only had one moment of food poisoning while in India. And, from a certain point of view that is true...because it wasn't until I was over the Atlantic, hours away from New York that...I'll also put it this way...I gave British Airways a special gift in the toilet.

New York at night from the sky...is beautiful. It glitters, shimmers. The Empire State Building, Central Park. And from the sky at night you can see how massive the city is, how far in every direction it stretches. It also feels like you are visiting a city of the future, something out of Blade Runner. Perhaps I felt that because I had no idea what time it should be...the beginnings of Jet Lag.

I was worried. About customs. Not that I had anything illegal in my bags, but...I had a lot. And I'm not to sure when I have to declare something. Sure, I received that piece of paper in government speak, but, still, I'm always nervous they are going to demand my bag to be opened and discover that I bought one to many T-shirts of the Taj Mahal and I now need to pay taxes. Right then and there. Cash only, no check, no credit cards.

The guy at customs barely looked at me. I was ushered through with no problems. A small part of me was disappointed...but, then, the smarter part of me was thrilled, now I could get into a cab and go home.

And home I went...where for four days I went to bed at three in the morning and waking up at eleven. Oh, sweet sweet jet lag...

And so...

That's it! That's the trip. My first and the beginning of a life time of trips back to India.

I am living a life that I never imagined. I never imagined I would marry a woman, a wonderful, amazing woman, from another country. That half of my family is in a country on the other side of the world. That my life is now wrapped into the history of this marvelous country, filled with such astounding contradictions, with ancient history, with new found pride as it grows by leaps and bounds.

My new family welcomed me, my parents, and others with wide open arms and for that I am eternally grateful.

And what's next for the View From My Apartment? Now that I have finished the series, I'll be able to dedicate more attention to this blog. I hope to do this much more regularly and my apologies to those who have waited with patience (like my mom) for me to stop being so lazy and write this damn thing. Thanks!

Long Vintage, the View #16

The View From My Apartment 16

The Wedding

A typical Indian wedding has three events. The night where henna is put on the bride and groom, the wedding ceremony itself and then the reception. In most cases, the wedding ceremony is very late at night, early in the morning, and the reception is the following day.

The first night, the women and the men are separated, the men talk men stuff and the women sing, dance and get henna done. Who would you rather hang out with? Well, as the groom, I could do whatever I wanted. I went with the women folk. (Though to be fair, the men DID have better drinks offered, so I would go up there for a nip.)

Our wedding was smaller than most, in part because we had already been married, and because we were doing it at an odd time of year. (When the priest came to discuss the ceremony itself, he looked up our charts, and suggested that we actually get married on a different more auspicious day. We threw fate to the wind and pressed on...)

We did the henna night down in the basement of the apartment complex, decorated for the night, with a DJ, waiters, plenty of pillows to sit on. The men had to remain upstairs in the apartment until meal time.

In a weird sort of way, it's like a bachelorette party—without the obligatory sex toys. We danced to Bollywood songs, and laughed. Deepti and I danced to my favorite number from Bunty aur Babli, a song called, Kajra Re as performed by my favorite star Amitabh Bachchan, more on him later. For those who want to see the fabulousness that is Amitabh--he's the older bloke with the red scarf-- go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4XdM-WA1FmM and check out Kajra Re.

I thought I had caused quite a sensation, my Bollywood moves, I thought were quite fly. But then...Arjun arrived.

You remember him? The eight month old who couldn't stop staring at this white man? Nidthi brought him down, and suddenly, something primal seemed to have over taken the girls. The moved as a pack towards the little boy. A sound rose from within their ranks, it began as a rumble, turned to a roar, then transformed into shrieks. The girls reached and pulled the baby away from his mother. He was passed around, thrown into the air, and fought over by the girls.

I didn't think he would make it. At least intact. But he's a survivor that Arjun. He survived the tough love from all the women.

The next day...the wedding.

Now, remember when I wrote that the priest felt that the day of the wedding wasn't the best day? If you don't remember, take this moment to go back up, read it again. I'll wait.

Alright. So, the priest, in order to make it a more auspicious day, had to perform a little ceremony before the actual ceremony—which would take place outside in the courtyard.

It should have been so simple. However, the priest's scooter couldn't start. That's right, our Hindu priest uses a scooter. Awesome. But, for whatever reason, he was late. Like by an hour.

In the West, we freak out about such things. We are very needy about things starting on time. I am horribly guilty. I want movies to start early I get so bored and anxious waiting.

But not so in India. Now, one could argue that it is all tied to the world view and mythology of Hindu culture. Possibly. But I think a more likely explanation: being late happens. A lot. You have to get used to it or die.

Eventually, he showed up. And began his ceremony. There were offerings, chanting...more offerings, participation by everyone. It was nice. It took some time to get started, as all the men in the room had something to say. Remember this: In India, everyone has an opinion and will share it with you. (Of course, that just might apply everywhere.)

We had some pictures done. A very strange experience of a man telling us how to pose in unnatural ways. But it was a hoop we had to jump through in order to get to...

The wedding itself...

It was outdoors in a large tent put up the day before. Carpeting had been put down, pillows around a fire pit and two large thrones. Guess who the thrones were for? That's right, hail to the king, baby.

Oh, and did I mention there was food? Yes. Off to the side, there was a buffet with chai. Welcome to anyone to go and nibble during the ceremony. This is one thing I really wish Western ceremonies would embrace. I have sat through to many wedding ceremonies where a warm samosa would have made the event that much more exciting.

Deepti and I sat around the fire, the priest on the other side. And the ceremony began. There were more offerings, prayers by the priests, my in laws made offerings, my parents made offerings, Deepti and I made offerings. And then the priest asked Deepti and I a series of questions. Now, this was done in Hindi, and I only had a good friend of Deepti's, Rahul, to rely on. I could have promised anything. I just nodded, you know? I think I'm ok, but you just never know.

We then circled the fire several times and then...we were married. That was it. Simple. I don't know if anyone attending was paying attention by that point, they were eating and chatting during the whole thing. Something else I think the West should adopt. I would like attending weddings much more if I could chat to the person next to me.

Oh. Yeah. I almost went on to the reception, and I'm sure my wife would appreciate it if I did. Because the next little bit, well, it doesn't reflect well on her family.

Remember when her mother tried to poison me with cashews? Well, one of her uncles tried to poison me with dairy. I had, up to this point avoided the dairy. It didn't smell right to me. It was perfectly safe...well...but it hadn't been as pasteurized as it is in the US. So, I didn't drink the milk or eat the yogurt.

During the eating portion of the wedding ceremony, one of her uncles fed us, each a spoon of yogurt.

I was fine. Until after the ceremony. That's when the cramping started. Followed by the diarrhea. (This part, I'm sure, my mother would wish I didn't make public. Good thing for you that I'm writing this, eh?) Now...it was a vivid green. The sort of green I didn't think the human body could produce. But (tee hee) there it was, green. And whole lot of fluid. More fluid than I had taken in. It just kept pouring out. At a certain point I was more amazed than I was worried. In the end (giggle) there wasn't anything left. I took some medicine and hit the bed. By morning I was fine. Not eager to eat, but fine.

Let me tell you: it takes more than yogurt to kill this man from the mid-west.

The reception was going to be at a hall not far from the center of Delhi. It was beautifully decorated. The main responsibility of Deepti and I was to smile and say hello. This was going to be a bigger event, three hundred people, than the wedding ceremony itself. Everyone my in laws had ever met was invited—ok, perhaps that an exaggeration...or not.

We begin making our rounds, seeing some relatives again...who all seemed to know that I had been ill, as they asked how I was feeling. Should I have been suspicious? We also met friends, co-workers, everyone. The reception is also where people give the gifts, basically tokens of congratulations, or what have you, and they also give money to the parents who hosted the wedding.

I met a lot of people that night. I wish I could bore you with everyone that I met. But...I can't remember. And it's not because of time, but by the end of that night, I just couldn't fit anymore names into my tiny little brain.

The night ended with Deepti and I FINALLY getting to eat the food that was set out.

As we were getting ready to go, that's when the demands for the tips began. It began for me when I was exiting the bathroom, a man said to me, "tip?" That surprised me. Because I didn't know what he had done while I was in the bathroom for him to get a tip. I mean, it's not like he did anything for me IN the bathroom. I looked at him strangely, but kept on walking.

Soon, it became clear, everyone was in search of their tip for the event. All the servers, etc. And they ask for it. And if they don't like how much they get, they will tell you. Just be prepared. And that guy came after me in the bathroom for two reasons. 1. Because he thought he would get a lot out of me, being American and not familiar with the rupee so I would over tip and 2. Because he would then go to my father in law and ask for another tip.

He was sneaky. But he didn't plan on my ignorance...

Taj Mahal

After the wedding, my parents, along with her sister in law and a cousin, took Deepti and I on a trip to the Taj Mahal in Agra.

The whole trip is a part of a package—a bus, accommodation, tickets into Taj Mahal as well as the Fort in Agra, and a tour guide. We get to Agra, a moderately sized city, where the major bucks come from tourism, the Taj IS a wonder of the world after all, in the late afternoon.

In order to preserve the Taj, the city had much of the industry shut down, so pollutants wouldn't damage the marble. This also means that you can't drive up to it. You can only get your car so close, and from that point on, you take an electric bus, and then you walk the rest of the way.

We went early in the morning, just after breakfast. It was chilly. But bright out. Once we had our tickets, and once we had been searched (please, no explosives at the Taj Mahal) we enter into a courtyard. Our tour guide says some stuff. I don't remember. I kept thinking, weird, I'm about to see the Taj Mahal. I hope he didn't say anything I should remember, something that I might later want to put into a blog. But, really, that's what wikipeida is for.

We go through this court yard, into a gate, and framed perfectly, is the Taj. It's gleaming white marble, it's symmetrical shape, with the four towers leaning out just a little, in case of Earthquake, the towers won't hit the shrine.

It's just beautiful. And serene. And a tomb. I'm afraid that my words won't quite describe it, and there are plenty of pictures, so I won't bother. But the experience of actually being there, where craftsmen spent decades carving the marble and all the inlay work...because a man wanted to honor the memory of his wife. Sure, he was a king, and she was queen, and he could afford to build it, but in the end, it was because he loved her so much he wanted something that mirrored her beauty.

It's strange...what I remember most...I didn't have any questions, I just didn't. All I could do was simply marvel. At the level of craft, at the size, and...hell...it was the fucking Taj Mahal. Its name is its meaning. It's a glorious tribute.

You know what it is? It's something that no husband ever will be able to surpass. This one guy, he screwed over husbands forever.

It is a national symbol. It is a thing of pride And the level of care to maintain the area is high...once you get through the park and ponds, before you are able to walk onto the tomb, you have to put on little paper booties, like doctors wear. And, I read recently, they may pack Taj in mud in order to remove some of the particulates that have already begun to change the color of the marble.

But it's interesting...and we do here in the US as well...while it is an object of national pride, there is also an industry to be made from it. Once you leave the Taj, you are confronted by people eager to sell you things, either books about the place or, strangely, mini marble chess sets. And these people will not take no for an answer. In fact, no merely means you are negotiating.

These people make their living from tourists, so it makes sense for them to be there as you come out, but there was for me, such a disconnect from my experience inside with the experience outside. I wanted to continue...contemplating, I guess. I had seen something of extraordinary beauty, and right after that, I had to push my way through peddlers trying to get me to purchase sandals.

Like I said, we do it here in the US, what major historical place doesn't have a gift shop? Gettysburg? (They have a bookstore in their visitor's center. I just looked it up.

But still...there's something a little wrong with reducing something so large into a trinket or a t-shirt. It is about a memory. Sometimes. Other times it's about having a badge saying: I went here. There's just a part of me that hates reducing a thing and then duplicating it. All in all, I much prefer the real thing to a t-shirt.

That is not to say, I am not a complete hypocrite. We did eventually find a small marble drawing of the Taj Mahal. We had hoped to find a miniature, but they all looked...well...manufactured in bulk. And crappy.

Sometime in your life: Go see a Wonder of the World. The pyramids, Taj Mahal, something. Do it. It's so much better than a photo.

Delhi vs. New Delhi

Time for a little history lesson. Delhi is a very old city, and had been for many centuries a seat of power. For a time Calcutta, or Kolkota as it is now called, was the capital of India. After the Rebellion of 1857, the British, those rascally Imperialists, moved the capital back to Delhi, deciding a city in the center of the country, might be easier to govern from.

At the turn of the 20th Century, the British decided to do some redecoration. Specifically, central Delhi. The British built government buildings, which are still used today, as well as Connaught Place, a giant traffic circle/park with a series of shops surrounding it. This area, with its government buildings, parks, etc., is New Delhi. Made by the British.

Amitabh Bachchan and Bombay

We had one more trip to do together before my wife went to Australia and I came back to the United States. We were heading off to Bombay, or Mumbai, for those keeping count. Deepti works for a company that does corporate training. The company is looking to expand into Asia, and they wanted Deepti to audition actors for future work.

And being the acting capital of India, a trip to Bombay was in order! Deepti has old friends there, and family...the Mighty Arjun and family just moved to Bombay. The company was paying for the hotel room and her ticket, so, I got to be a groupie and tag along.

Another trip to the Delhi International Airport...

This time, however, we go to the domestic flights. A security guard, with a semi-automatic rifle over his shoulder, checks to see if we have tickets to get into the airport. We do, and we go in. The luggage is passed through an x-ray machine, and then we head off to check in.

Deepti does all the talking. The woman behind the counter checks her ID, but not mine, and takes out luggage to be loaded onto the plane. I thought it was curious that my ID was looked at, but, then, I thought, it will be checked when we board the plane.

Not so. We board, getting in line to walk up the stairs into the plane. I'm tempting to ask the stewardess if they want to see my ID. Perhaps they just forgot to ask. Maybe it was their first day on the job. I'll be helpful. But, no one else's ID was being checked. So...I roll with it—'cause I fly like that.

The plane ride—which was a part of a brand new fleet owned by Kingfisher, an Indian beer company—was a little under two hours. We were served food, there was TV. A domestic flight with food and TV? I felt like I had seen the future.

I was excited to go to Bombay. I got to see another part of India, it was by the ocean, and it is Bollywood. And who wouldn't want to go to Bollywood?

I have grown to like Bollywood movies. At first, they were weird—mostly they were weird to me because I couldn't get over the fact that no matter the genre someone was going to sing and dance. It could be a drama, an action film, a film about disease, there will be a moment when people will sing and dance.

What got me through: oh, yeah, we do that in American musicals. Every Bollywood film is an American Musical. Just in Hindi.

And by far my favorite Bollywood movie stay is Amitabh Bachchan. He's been around for some time. He is huge. He is the biggest star in the Bollywood film industry. He is...Brando, Harrison Ford, and John Wayne all wrapped up in one tall guy. Who know wears a toupee...so through in some William Shatner. There isn't a genre he can't do...light comedy, heavy drama, action. He's a supernova of talent. Oh, and add in some Elvis, the dude can dance.

Once, when he was badly injured on set, people from all over India came to Bombay to pray for him. Pray for him.

When he makes a movie, thousands and thousands show up on the set to catch a glimpse of him.

He is an industry unto himself.

He also hosted the Indian version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?

Anyway. I wanted to get a poster. I had seen some in Delhi, but, frankly, they sucked. Sure, they would cost me only a quarter, but if I was going to spend my hard earned rupees, I wanted to spend it on a great poster of Amitabh. Deepti was sure that I could get it in Bombay.

From the airport, I take my first auto-rickshaw. It's basically a tricycle with a tiny motor. And they are all over India. They are cheap rides, a little smelly, and maybe not all that safe. I recommend that if you do go to India, get an Indian friend to negotiate for you while you hide behind a tree. It will be a much cheaper ride.

We get to the hotel, suffer through some problems, and then meet up with some old friends of Deepti's. They were actors that Deepti had trained with in Delhi. They were a lot of fun, interested in what we were up to. And it didn't hurt that we ate and drank right on the ocean.

We make plans to meet up with more acting friends the next night. It's been a long day, and Deepti had to work the next morning.

That following evening, we get our plate nice and full: spend some time with Deepti's friends, and then, as they have newly moved to Bombay, see Nidthi, Anirbahn and the MIGHTY ARJUN! Will this kid ever just leave me alone?

So, the friends collect at the hotel, and then they decide the best course of action, as there is a happy hour, is to go and drink at the...TGI Friday's. In the mall. Yes. That's right. A TGI Friday's in the mall. Back in an auto-rickshaw, and off to the mall...

It was like I had never left America. The stores, the glass, the lighting, it was like your average mall in your average American town. And as far as the Fridays. It was lifted straight out of my home town. From the American movie posters, street signs, to the menu. It was a copy. Of TGI Fridays. In Bombay. Of all places.

I do have to point out two differences. 1. There were Indians and 2. the burgers were made from lamb instead of beef.

And I think we drank light beer. My brain swirled. Perhaps globalization IS a bad thing...If it means exported entire restaurant decorations to another country...it's just evil. Plain evil.

Deepti, recently, suggested they took us there for my sake. No. It was the happy hour.

We drink, we chat, and then we split. Time for dinner. We grab another auto-rickshaw, they are just SO cute, and head off to the restaurant. The place is a sea food joint that Anirbahn had wanted to take us, and...sigh...it was close to the home of one Amitabh Bachchan. I felt like a tourist in Hollywood. My heart began to beat just a little faster, my mouth became dry as we approached.

And I didn't see much. There was a guard posted outside. And a wall. And I assume somewhere behind that wall was the man. Perhaps he was kicking his feet up, toupee off, drink in hand playing Xbox. I doubt it. But it is possible.

With a heavy heart, we get to the restaurant and meet with Nidthi, Anirbahn, and a sleepy Arjun. As we eat, a very delicious meal, Arjun is passed around, eventually ending up in my arms. He didn't seem to mind. Finally. He got over his fear of white people.

We finish dinner, they go off, we go off back to the hotel.

The next morning, after packing, we go in search of my poster. I can't leave without a poster. That would be criminal. And I do wish there was a great story to tell about getting the poster. But really people, I went to a store and bought a poster. That's it. It was cheap. It was excellent. No story here. No great little revelation of culture or the world. I bought a poster. How often do great revelations and stories happen to YOU when you go and buy, oh, I don't know, a pair of shoes? Sometimes things just happen. In this case, I got a groovy poster of an actor. Which now hangs proudly in my office. Staring at me. Constantly. Why doesn't he just leave me alone?

Back to the airport. Where at no point Deepti or I have our ID's checked. Not once. We could have been anyone. It was kind of awesome.

Next up:
The final few days in India, Astronomy, and British Airways back to America!