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About gettingoutalive

Brought up in one of "those" families - a challenge. Lucky enough to marry someone who inspired me to create a much-healthier family and have a life which helped me begin to love myself. From Texas to California to Wisconsin to Israel. From reliable, responsible child to rebellious teen to fearless young adult to grateful grandmother. Five beautiful, fascinating grown children. Fourteen amazing, enchanting grandchildren. From university teacher to researcher to couple counselor to political spokesperson to yoga instructor. Still married after all these years.

The Enormity of Small Acts of Kindness

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A long time ago, during our second trip to the Peruvian Amazon forest, I had one of those eye opening experiences. You know the kind when all of a sudden one conversation makes you awaken to a different reality?

A bunch of us were sitting around the breakfast table and I don’t even remember what I said but a middle aged plus guy from California, former hippie type who made a bunch of money, said to me, “Wait. So I don’t get it. Every morning you wake up with the thought that you’ll try to be a better person that day?”

He was genuinely perplexed and I had one of those ah ha moments when I realized that what I had assumed to be a given for most everybody just…wasn’t. Sort of like when I realized that not everyone takes the skin off chicken before cooking it. But a little more disconcerting.

So I don’t know how you’ll take what I’m about to write. Maybe you’ll think it’s weird. Maybe it IS weird. I’ve certainly thought, said, and done much weirder stuff, though, so here goes.

One of the places high on our list of places to go in India has always been Amritsar in the Punjab region. We almost made it last trip but Covid pushed us in a different direction – homeward. Most people go to Amritsar to see The Golden Temple, as did we. Perhaps the only difference is that we weren’t interested in going into the temple itself. Aside from the 90 minute wait in line in 40 degrees (104 degrees Fahrenheit), my partner doesn’t go into temples for religious reasons so I choose the temples I go to carefully as he waits outside.

No, we wanted to volunteer in the langar hall which serves food for free to between 50,000-100,000 people every day. Open 24/7, food is served to whoever shows up, no questions asked, no judgement. Each “sitting” lasts 15 minutes. The food is simple but healthy – lentils, rice, chapatti (Indian flatbread), and water.

People wait on the long porch outside until they’re waved inside to collect their plates and cups and continue on to the hall where food is served. Women volunteers at various wash points sit in groups of six or seven washing the metal plates and cups

We told the Sikh at the entrance that we wanted to volunteer. It took a few tries before he understood. He directed us to Langar Hall. We got there, barefoot and after two foot baths, with our heads appropriately covered with orange material. The Sikh workers there tried repeatedly to push a plate and cup into our hands so we could join the others to eat.

What to do with these foreigners??

Each one pointed us up the next couple of stairs for the next Sikh worker to deal with us. The fourth or fifth turbaned guy realized what we intended and called a younger worker over who knew a few words in English. He beckoned us to follow him, which we did, up three flights of stone stairs at a very fast pace.


On the third floor he led us on a circuitous route which ended in a large room with 2 machines churning out chapattis and a low table where about eight women and a very stern Sikh man sat on low stools.

The room was stifling hot.

I was pointed to a designated stool and joined the women.

For the next two hours I schmeered hot oil on chapattis with a piece of cloth wound around and attached to a stick. A young man dumped the chappatis out of a basket onto the table straight out of the ovens. They were burning hot. I think the FBI will have a hard time finger printing me should they need to – my finger tips were scorched.

The chappatis came relatively slowly at first and I learned the routine and got into the rhythm. Then the lunch rush hour must’ve started because they started coming fast and furious. Remember Mickey Mouse carrying buckets of water in The Sorcerer’s Apprentice or Lucille Ball working in the bakery?

At first the other women were wary of the foreigner in their midst. But, like any group of women anywhere, it wasn’t too long before they were trying to communicate with me. At first the two women in charge of quality control, making piles of good chapattis and throwing misshapen or overly burnt ones in a bin, only sent a few chapatti my way. After 15 minutes or so they were throwing big stacks my way. Yep, I was one of the gang.

A young woman from The Netherlands joined us after about an hour, and then we were two.

The second day my partner decided to join in. He’d only watched the first day, feeling odd about the whole Sikh thing. We’d talked the evening after our first visit about how the Sikhs’ generosity of heart knows no bounds and makes no differentiation between foreigners, Hindus, Christians, or anyone else. I think he came out of the conversation feeling the beauty of the universality of it all.

In any case, we were already part of the work party by the second day, directed to stools and given our sticks and bowls of hot oil.

An Ayurvedic doctor joined us that day. My partner gained insight into the sad reality of many Indian families whose children emigrate and become Westernized and upwardly mobile and basically estranged from their families.

Before we’d found Langar Hall the first day we’d gone into the Sikh museum also within the temple complex. Sikhism has only been around for about 500 years. Their history is bloody and filled with martyrs killed in cruel and blood curdling ways.

To this day they carry a sword and are actually permitted to do so in public places, like banks and airports, by law.

It’s hard to reconcile their history of brutality with their unprecedented compassion and kindness shown in the Langar Halls in Delhi and Amritsar. Another if life’s inconsistencies.

We left after redeeming our shoes, passing by hundreds of people resting or, unbelievably, sleeping on the hard granite floors. Another unique Indian experience.

As for our Californian Amazon traveling companion, “Yes, Paul, I do in fact wake up every morning with the thought of how I can be a better person.” It’s not a burden or a hardship. It brings me joy and fills me with gratitude that I’ve been blessed with a life which allows me to open my eyes and my heart to other people who share this often challenging world with me.

The heat of the chapatti room, the loud music, the scorching chapattis, the shy smiles of the other women, the knowledge that those oil schmeered chapattis would help fill the bellies of people who might otherwise go hungry…as my delightful yogi in Rishikesh would say…and that.

Traveling with Family – Part 2

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Families are complicated. Large families are largely complicated. I used to think my own dysfunctional family – bipolar mother and clergyman father – was more complicated than most. Then I grew up.

My partner and I have five adult children and sixteen grandchildren. It goes without saying that each of the twenty-eight people in our family is a multi-faceted, quirky, fascinating person in her own right (we are 17 females and 11 males but I’ll be using all sorts of pronouns).

Just the fact that, to my mother-in-law’s great anger, we “turned our backs on the great country which gave us so much” and moved to Israel already sets us apart from mainstream USA. Add to that oh so many others of our personal traits and decisions and it becomes easy to see why I add the word ‘quirky’ to a list that otherwise applies to one and all.

But this isn’t about our family in entirety, just Tsippy’s family of 4 (not counting her soon-to-be ex-husband), and us.

As you read in Part 1, Tsippy is a successful career woman who has been raising her three children virtually on her own for the past two years. Her kids are 14, almost-12, and almost-8. Not particularly easy ages, but are there really easy ages? I think that might be a myth.

One of the things you didn’t read in Part 1 is that her oldest is a trans boy. There’s so much that entails. Heartache and joy, difficult challenges, serious crises and decisions, celebrated achievements, lots of introspection, acceptance, juggling, tears, eye-rolling, embarrassment, laughter, and, finally, and most importantly, love.

He and I are very close.

He doesn’t like a lot of people. He has no patience for bullsxxt.

He can take social situations like school (because he has to) and family gatherings (because he’s learned they’re theoretically healthy and relatives’ intentions toward him are good) but only in limited doses. After 3-4 hours he’s emotionally exhausted and needs alone time,

For whatever reason, he’s chosen me as “his person”. If his Mom is his coping strategy, as he’s told me, I’m his #2 (At least most days).

He agreed to come to India because I’d be there. I was flattered.

His almost-12 year old sister is the exact opposite socially. She has a gajillion friends, is a talented dancer, and a good student. She’s cheerful, physically affectionate (a great hugger), and has a killer smile. She drives her brother crazy and, at the same time, idolizes him. She’s ridiculously understanding of how hard his life is and the attention he requires from their Mom. She reminds her Mom that she requires attention, too…a lot.

The youngest is the kind of boy who wakes his Mom up every morning with “I love you, Mommy.” An amazing soccer player. Give him a soccer ball, pizza with lots of tomato sauce, and his Mom, and he’s good to go.

Add doughnuts to the list of things he loves

Tsippy herself is an inspiration. Many single Moms are. She’s learned the importance of balance the hard way – each of her kids’ needs, her own needs, work, home, friends, extended family, keeping up appearances and also not giving a crap, asking for help from the right people, accepting that she’s not in control of how a lot of stuff turns out – even the stuff she cares about the most.

So that’s the constellation, other than me and my partner. You’ve met us and gotten to know us here over the past umpteen posts. If you haven’t, you can go back and do your homework.

We met up with them after their 5 hour cab ride from the Delhi airport to Rishikesh. They’d slept in the car and were on a high. Excited about the cows wandering the streets, the kiosks with colorful clothes, jewelry, and bags of all sizes, and the diversity of dress and skin color of the people passing by.

They wanted to taste all the street food we saw and tell us all about their flights. Preferably at the same time. They tried on scarves and checked out the saris and salwar kameez. They only very reluctantly agreed to go to their hotel.

Food became an issue. We’d discussed it before the trip and prepared for it as well as we could. We chose restaurants with varied menus; Indian food but also pizza, chips (French fries), and cornflakes. The pizza and chips were a bit different than what they were used to so we often left 3/4 of every dish behind. They ate pringles, chocolates, rice, cornflakes, and doughnuts. Not a great way to sustain human life but it was only for two weeks.

They didn’t complain.

Not about the food, or the endless shopping, or the loud craziness on the streets, horns blaring, or the cow sxxt which required diligent attention, or the limitations we set on how much money they could each give to the ubiquitous (and deserving) kids and adults with their hands out and a sad look in their eyes.

There was very little bickering – much less than at home – and not many flare ups.

When the henna drawing on the oldest’s leg didn’t come out like he hoped, he took it out on his sister. Big time. Why? (what silly person asks a 14 year old why?)

So far so good…until it wasn’t

We all saw how much of an effort the oldest made to participate in all our activities. He really wanted to be a part of it all. Even the activities that strained his coping skills to the max. When his perfectionism ruined his pleasure in his miniature painting of a peacock during our 3-hour workshop, he barely mentioned it. He just set it down, wandered off, and found a place to sit with his phone.

When he chose to remain in the hotel in Agra, Tsippy and the others went to the Taj Mahal on their own and had a great time taking goofy photos. No guilt tripping. Everybody was happy.

The youngest was patient (long suffering) as we shopped. He had his grandfather to hang out with. He got compensation with a long dip in the (very cold) Ganges. The oldest was happy to hand out candies to all the village children in compensation for what he defined as the day from hell (4 hours of extreme heat). The sandwich kid who has a VERY hard time making decisions was allowed all the time she needed, even when (inevitably) she decided not to decide.

There was a lot of give and take. A lot of mutually respecting personal boundaries and foibles. A lot of appreciation for our time together; even if it required taking a few deep breaths from time to time. Even when the oldest said at one point, admirably, “You know, I’m totally restraining myself from yelling at you for that very annoying comment.”

Another shop???

And it wasn’t only an amazing bonding experience for the grandkids.

My partner is quite religious. He observes all the rituals; keeps all the restrictions. Our kids aren’t religious and have always had a strained relationship with their father around these issues. They see him as inflexible and putting religion before his relationship with them.

He feels that because he’s “the religious one” and none of the kids observe the rituals and restrictions, if he doesn’t make a point of observing them when he’s with our kids and grandkids there won’t be any room for those observances there. No one will make sure there’s a space for him to do what he needs to do.

I see both sides and understand the behaviors but it’s mostly not my story to rewrite. I know that he puts his family above and before everything else in his life.

Of course if no one felt threatened the kids would make a respectful place for my partner’s religious observances in their homes, and he would be more flexible and make space for them not to observe while he does.

Easier said than done.

Our time in India with Tsippy and her family coincided with the Jewish holiday of Passover. Lots of restrictions and observances.

Tsippy and the grandkids were positive and respectful at the Seder and my partner was understanding and encouraging when they’d had enough and asked to be excused.

We found out which of the many Indian bread options are not made with wheat, and made the decision to eat kitniyot (legumes and rice) which are not considered “not kosher for Passover” but are, for the most part, not eaten by Ashkenazi Jews (which we are). That made it possible for us to eat with our family, and for Tsippy to say towards the end of the trip that his flexibility made her very happy and feel very embraced by him.

No words were ever more welcome.

It was two weeks of grace; of kindness, love, acceptance, and gratitude. It wasn’t without its sad moments; realizing (not for the first time) that we can’t create a bubble of perfection and ease for the people we love. But it was two weeks we’ll all remember for the bonds we made.

There’s talk of a trip together to the Serengeti.

Sad Westernization

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Seven years ago, before leaving home for India, I received the name and phone number of a yoga teacher in Rishikesh. I’d been teaching yoga for six years and thought learning with an Indian master might add something special to my practice. As it turned out when I arrived in Rishikesh, that particular yogi was traveling abroad but his phone was answered by a young Sikh yogi and, since one unknown Indian yogi was the same as any other for me, I made arrangements to do yoga with him every morning of our five day stay there.

The studio was a large room with murals on one way and a large window overlooking The Ganges on another. We climbed a precarious metal spiral staircase outside to reach the room.

My newly-discovered teacher was very young and had only been teaching a year longer than me. But he was very sweet and I realized long ago that if I open my eyes, my ears, and my heart, lessons can be learned in unexpected places from unexpected people.

We met for 3 hours every day for the five days I spent in Rishikesh.

He taught me a long series of poses called Pawanmuktasana especially suited to loosening and strengthening our joints. My husband still begins every workout at the gym with poses from Pawanmuktasana and I often integrate some of the poses in my classes.

We exchanged interpretations of philosophical issues even if we didn’t always understand each other perfectly.

We learned a bit about each others lifestyles and cultures.

When our time together came to an end I asked him him how much to pay him. He said there was no payment to be made. At my urging he agreed to accept whatever I wanted to pay. I’d asked around and paid him a bit more than what was being paid at studios in the area, still about a third of what I would’ve had to pay at any Western studio for 15 hours of drop in classes.

Three years ago I was in touch with him before our return trip to India. We agreed that we would meet again for classes. By that time I’d been teaching for ten years and lost my enthusiasm for trying other styles of yoga and other teachers. I’d taken a two year yoga and yoga therapy course to receive Western certification, been to a dozen silent retreats of various lengths, been to yoga festivals, marathon sun salutation sessions, and taught hundreds of classes. Out of respect, I agreed to take two classes a week with him. My partner took an additional three classes a week.

This time he was teaching in a small, dark room with inadequate ventilation to save money and told us up front that there was a required payment per session. He’d begun teaching a few foreign groups from time to time and realized that it was possible to increase his income.

The classes were lackluster and the short dharma talks he gave lacked the depth of the hundreds of hours I’d heard over the previous four years from so many talented teachers.

Before returning to India on our current trip I asked for his input about lodging near Beit Chabad in Rishikesh. We were planning to be there for the holiday of Passover and needed to have easy access to a Seder, food according to the holiday’s restrictions, and prayer. The iconic Laxman Bridge is no longer in use and staying across the river is no longer a practical option.

He was very helpful.

During our first month in India we were down south at beautiful Thumpoly Beach at our friend Antony’s place, then Kanyakumari, Pondicherry, and Auroville. From time to time we got WhatsApp messages from him asking about our trip. Odd, but okay.

We spent a week in Rishikesh as planned, where one of our daughters and her three children joined us before we all headed off to Rajasthan for a week. While in Rishikesh our former yoga teacher asked to come by a few times. Out of respect, we agreed. Awkward, but okay.

On our first full day back in Rishikesh we happily explored learning possibilities for our month visit.

And then received progressively angrier and hostile audio WhatsApp’s from our former yoga teacher.

Inexplicably he was under the impression that we would be doing yoga with him every day for a month. He’d set aside that time for us and put off other potential clients.

He’d told us his days were filled with lucrative online classes of people from the UK, US, and Israel. We never dreamed he was counting on us for his monthly income. We weren’t even positive we’d be in Rishikesh for a full month because many people said it gets too hot to go outside (it doesn’t).

We were confused at his assumptions, dismayed by his feeling that we’d used him as a travel agent and misled him, and taken aback at his claim to be losing a 10-15,000 rupee payment. We offered to meet three times a week but kept getting more angry audio WhatsApp’s. Eventually we stopped responding, as did he, and we thankfully haven’t heard from his since,

My husband found an excellent yoga teacher just a five minute walk away, not surprising since if you toss a stone here chances are you’ll hit a cow or a yoga teacher.

Our new teacher. He’s also teaching me Ayurvedic massage and reflexology.

My partner is taking Hindi classes daily from the same pedantic teacher he studied with three years ago. He’s actually speaking Hindi to people already. He practices like a demon.

And I meet with a charming monk at a nearby ashram from time to time to learn to play the Indian flute, but mostly to listen to his stories, watch his expressive face, and soak in the atmosphere. He, also, by the way, refuses payment and is only willing to receive a donation according to what I feel is appropriate.

I feel sad when I think of the epitome of yoga I met seven years ago who taught yoga out of love and took payment only through Dana or Dan – personal giving from the heart.
I’m convinced that he became corrupted by his contact with foreign tourists and his online classes. He told us that he enjoys working with them since it doesn’t bother them to pay high prices. His Facebook is full of the new car he purchased and his many holidays. His messages to us were filled with ego and grasping.

Necessarily, in my opinion, the increase in the Westernization of yoga leads to a decrease in living and practicing according to the beautiful ideals of the eight limbs of yoga. It’s a huge challenge to combat that reality.

In my studio there are four teachers. Two of us are happy to charge little, encourage our students to attend class whether or not they’re able to pay, and remain flexible about keeping track of payment. One teacher lives with that approach comfortably but will probably be happy to earn more if she decides to work elsewhere. And one teacher constantly struggles with the studio’s approach.

They’re all excellent teachers. I feel that part of my role as the owner of the studio is that of helping all of us remain as much as possible within the healthy, self-nourishing framework of the philosophy of yoga. As I often remind them, and myself, we’re not an after school music lesson or drama group.

Being a yoga teacher is a commitment to a lifestyle.

Being a yoga teacher in this way is, first and foremost, a gift to ourselves.

It may be impractical and out of fashion in today’s world but I believe it still has a place that should be protected.

Udaipur: The Village Tour

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We met our daughter and her three children at the Delhi airport after they’d spent the weekend in Agra seeing the Taj Mahal. We flew together to UDAIPUR, a small, pretty city in the Rajasthan District. UDAIPUR is known as a romantic honeymoon location, home to the lovely Lake Pichola and impressive City Palace. My partner and I were there 7 years ago on our first trip to India and thought it would be a good place for children’s activities.

Rajasthan has its own rich history of colorful dress, dance, and music. We were sure the kids would love the cultural evening with the live Rajasthani music and groups of women dancing with bells on, fire pots on their heads, and especially the young woman dancing while balancing 10 colorful pots on her head. We were wrong. Luckily it was only an hour.

The next day we fared a lot better. All but one of us really got into the 3 hour art workshop where a patient, sweet, talented artist helped us each paint our very own miniature. Our daughter and granddaughter both created truly beautiful miniature paintings. My partner’s peacock and my dancing elephant weren’t bad but revealed that we needed a bit more instruction. Our youngest, a very active 7 year old, showed more focus and attention to detail in his prancing horse than I’d ever seen.

The 3 hour cooking class was a hit with all of us. It was very hands on – from the chopping to the kneading to the measuring and mixing of spices, to the frying…and, of course, the eating. The shy cook started off embarrassed that her English might not be good enough, but once she warmed up (and it’s hard not to warm up to these three kids!), she totally took over the instructions from her (very good looking) son, Gautam.

But the day none of us will ever forget is the day of the village tour.

My partner and I had taken a cab and driver out into the countryside 7 years previously. Our driver took us to several cottage industries – hand stamped textiles, pottery, a country art school for miniatures. We didn’t remember the names of the villages so after reading the glowing reviews of “Salim’s Day Village Tour” we decided to put our motley crew in Salim’s hands and follow wherever he led.

Salim, a devout soft-spoken Muslim, showed up dressed all in white in honor of the Muslim holiday of Ramadan. He brought another auto-rickshaw in addition to his own. We all piled in and off we went in the shimmering 35 degrees heat (95 degrees Fahrenheit).

About half an hour later he pulled onto a dirt and gravel road and then turned again onto a rocky path where he parked after another 100 meters. Our first sight was of two women in the distance washing clothes in the small creek. The second was a woman, also dressed in a traditional, colorful sari, with a stack of cow patties balanced on her head.

We followed Salim into a lean-to where five men of varying ages sat on a flat stone area and several women stood by a counter leading into a small hut. It turned out that the father of the woman of the house had died and they were celebrating his life according to their Hindu custom. Somewhat similar to the Jewish shiva, but not exactly an act of mourning since they believe that while his physical manifestation is gone, his (much more important) essence remains.

Oddly enough, one of the ways they honor their guests is to give them cigarettes. Maybe to hasten their reunion with the recently departed? There were giggles from the women and guffaws from the men when my daughter took one of the cigarettes and lit up. Indian women do NOT smoke. But my very white, very light haired daughter differs from them in so many ways that a puff on a cigarette didn’t offend.

We asked to see inside their one-room home and they happily acquiesced. One of the young women whisked off the covering from a large pot to show us the gas burners (my daughter told us later that a mouse came barreling out). Inside it was quite dark. There were big sacks of flour and rice along one wall. There was one bed with pots, pans, metal plates and cups on it. Salim explained later that the couple sleep in the bed and the children, in this case three, sleep on mats on the floor. There was no bathroom; it’s presumably outside.

We asked if there was electricity and a man pointed the one bare, unlit, bulb hanging in the entranceway.

After our goodbyes we moved on to a day care center not too far away. There were about 15 gorgeous three and four year olds inside.

To say the cramped space was dark, dirty, with virtually no toys doesn’t come close to giving an adequate description.

At one point a boy, who looked to be 8 or 9 years old, set fire to some kindling stuffed into a canister-looking contraption. We basically stood with our mouths open contemplating how many safety measures were being ignored while the smaller children heedlessly walked around the open flame. The lone day care worker put a pot of soup on top and began to prepare the children’s lunch.

Salim had recommended we bring candies. Our grandchildren had a great time handing out candies to the youngsters both inside the day care center and walking around the village. They were surprised that when they offered a candy to a child who, as it turned out, had already received one, she declined to take a second. What kid does that!?

By this time we were all drooping from the intense heat and more than ready to head back to our hotel. It wasn’t only because of the heat, though, that it was so quiet in the tuk-tuk on the ride back. There was a lot to think about.

We arrived at the gates to the 42 acres (over 160 dunam) surrounding our hotel. The turbaned guard called a buggy to come get us: goddess forbid we should walk the 150 meters to the entrance to the hotel. Along the way we saw peacocks roaming the grounds freely, smelled the fragrance of the beautiful flowers, and heard the splashing of many fountains.

Truth be told, we don’t usually stay in such elegant surroundings where there are so many impeccably dressed, beyond pleasant staff constantly bowing namaste in our direction over prayer hands. Our daughter is more accustomed to 5-star hotels and it’s actually much easier to enjoy a vacation with children, one of whom is a teenager, when they’re comfortable.

Inevitably at the dinner table when we talked about our impressions of our day, and after the grumbling about the schlepping around in too much heat for way too long, we all expressed our dismay at the parity between the lives of the villagers and the vacationing Indians sitting at the tables around us.

Almost 70% of the one and half billion people who live in India live outside the cities. As in most developing countries, every year people move to the city for employment or other ways of bettering the lives of their family – about 2% annually in India. The already overloaded infrastructure of the cities – Delhi with almost 33 million people, Mumbai with over 21 million, Bangalore with almost 14 million – is hard put to cope with more.

Prime Minister Modi, since his election in 2014, has instituted several programs to encourage villagers to remain in their villages. His government guarantees 100 days of employment to every villager who’s eligible. A gift of 150,000 rupee ($2000) is given to each village homeowner for home improvements, primarily to fortify roofs and walls to withstand monsoon season. 600 million toilets were purchased for the villages in the first five years of the present government .

And, still, the parity is huge.

We talked about the Indian trait of acceptance and the joy in the villagers’ children’s play. We talked about the bountiful nature of our own lives and how, even so, we so often strive for more and better. One of us reminds us of the pride in one man’s voice when he pointed out that his daughters were home visiting from college. So along with acceptance there can be a desire for change.

We conclude our conversation as so many of them end – knowing that we can only ever get a small peek into the depth and vastness of this amazing country called India.

None of us will ever forget these two weeks of ours as a family in India and this day will always stand out.

Riding the Rails

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Literally billions of people ride the Indian Railways every year – 8.086 billion in 2022. Established in 1836, it remains the most utilized form of public transportation between cities in India. Cheap, reliable, and relatively comfortable, passengers can choose between at least 3 classes of travel from non-air conditioned, usually very crowded, sleeper class to air conditioned first class (not available on most trains) with only one person per berth. Clean sheets and pillow cases are provided. There’s a small table and individual reading light in each berth. The seats revert into beds. Often there is a western toilet as well as an Indian “toilet” and the bathrooms are relatively clean, although often stinky.

The reservation process is tricky.

We were fortunate our first time in India to be taken under the wing of the young man who arranged for us to see tigers in Bandhavgarth. Though not at all his job, he walked us through the complicated process of opening our own Indian Railway account. As a result, we’ve been able to purchase train tickets online on every trip since. Most foreigners use the ubiquitous travel agencies where they can purchase train tickets for an added fee.

The status of a reservation is crucial.

We didn’t understand what all the abbreviations stood for at first and learned by making funny mistakes which thankfully didn’t result in us getting kicked off trains, but only because Indians have inhuman patience with how life rolls.

There are many levels of waiting list status. The final status only becomes available 3-4 hours before the train leaves the station. That’s why so many Indian families can be seen sitting, or even sleeping, on the platform floor. Often they’ve brought stainless steel closed pots with food for the long wait.

If a seat has not become available money is automatically refunded.

If one traveler receives confirmed status, all travelers in her party can board the train but they may not have an actual seat. They can sit on the berth of the confirmed traveler…or on the floor.

And then there’s finding the correct platform and your particular train car’s position. The train may stop for only 2 minutes and each train is ridiculously long. If you read Tamil Nadu or Mayalayam you may not have trouble reading the electronic sign but, even so, the platform may change. The final platform may only be announced (thankfully also in English though so heavily accented sometimes that it’s a challenge to understand) 10 minutes before the train’s arrival. Being old and very white, people often approach us to ask if they can assist us in standing in the right place. Indian kindness and gentleness is found everywhere.

Our first time in India we had to keep asking where to get off the train. There’s no announcement of stations. The stations are often not lit up so there’s no possibility of seeing the name of the stations at night. At that time there was no live online running status as there has been for consequent trips. Again Saptarishi, our guardian angel on our first trip, stepped in to save us on one overnight journey. He called us as 4 am to tell us to get off at the next stop. Sweet guy. Who knows where we would’ve ended up?

There’s a sense of accomplishment in learning the twists and turns of using the train system. And not only fanagling our way effortlessly through the process.

Also realizing that less is more. Each trip I’ve packed less so as to be more comfortable getting on and off trains as well as having more space around me in the berth. And that’s a useful skill for every aspect of travel, imo.

Also being with Indian travelers and having some interesting conversations- glimpses into their lives. Once a large group of university students traveling to various cities to see different types of city planning. Another time two middle aged couples – friends – taking an annual vacation together. A few days ago a young man whose job it is to be sure used linens are removed and clean linens provided.

On one of our first train trips a 50-something couple, both professors, returning home from visiting their son at college explained the Hindu relationship with god/dess statues and shared their views on arranged marriages versus “love marriages” (they were shocked to learn that ours wasn’t an arranged marriage).

Another benefit is being able to move around, stretch your legs, and even do a little yoga if you’re so inclined. India is huge – Rajasthan, one state out of 28 – is the size of Germany. A journey between cities might be a couple of days or more. Hiring a car with a driver is relatively inexpensive but not only are you in a pristine bubble, removed from actual India, you’re also stuck in a car for hours and hours, day after day. Sure, you can stop whoever you want, and you can stay overnight in nice air conditioned hotels along the way, but it just takes that much longer and is, imo, claustrophobic.

Did I mention the vendors who hop on the train selling tea, coffee, snacks, and meals?

“Chai, chai, masala chai, coffee!”

So far we’ve only been on two train trips and I’m not sure how many more we’ll take this time around.

I’m already feeling a bit nostalgic..

A Gentler Way of Life

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We’re leaving Thumpoly Beach later today.
Yesterday I spent two hours happily painting with acrylics surrounded by paintings of local artists and classical music in a specially designated room in a local art gallery. The owner of the gallery, a retired professor of political science and engineering, provides this wonderful experience for any tourist fortunate enough to learn of the possibility and make a reservation. There’s no fee.
He explained as we shared a cup of (way too sweet) coffee that he left the university five years before the age of retirement because his wife left her teaching position and was at home. There was a hint of illness on her part but he didn’t elaborate and I didn’t ask.
I sensed that the experiential opportunity he offers is an opportunity for him to socialize with people from all over the world now that he’s restricted to this lovely but insular fishing village. We chatted for an hour as he brought out spicy roasted cashews and cookies. A little politics (a big Modii and Bibi fan). A little religion (he’s Christian and fondly recalled his pilgrimage to Israel). A little economy (India has a vastly more reasonably priced medical system and price of living).
A man happy with his lot in life.
As I walked home I thought it could be very pleasant to be in Thumpoly for an extended visit and share afternoon tea and conversation with him from time to time.
I recognized several of the women I passed in their colorful saris with an umbrella held overhead to protect them for the sizzling sun. We smiled at each other, wagged our heads and offered a soft ‘namaste’.
Most stores are closed for a few hours when the sun is at its hottest and only now, at five o’clock, people are again out and about.
My partner and I had agreed just that morning that, as wonderful as it is here, we were ready to move on. But as I gazed at The Arabian Sea and the young men strolling along the beach I realized that I’m a little sad to be leaving.
Every morning we see the fishermen heading out for another day of catching whatever they can – and it isn’t much this time of year. They throw their gill nets or small trawling nets and harvest what they can. A few shrimp. A crab or two. A kilo of very small fish if they’re lucky. Later in the day we see exuberant children walk by in their school uniforms. Inevitably they stop to say hello, ask our names (again) and inquire after our health.
In the late afternoon, when there’s more of a breeze, we see various village residents walking by on the dirt path along the shore in front of our balcony. No one is in a hurry. They seem to be enjoying the sea air and the crash of the waves as much as we do, even though they’ve undoubtedly lived here all their lives.
I suppose there’s gossip and intrigues here as there are everywhere; heartbreak, ill health, kids making life choices their parents don’t understand.
There are very big beautiful homes and tiny unkempt hovels.
But in general life here seems to have a gentle rhythm and people seem to smile much more than in the towns with which I’m more familiar.
Our friends here have two children, which is the norm. One, their daughter, was accepted into the engineering program at a prestigious university very far away. The other, their son, is finishing high school and plans to spend seven years in the army.
Our friend, Antony, raised in this village, the son of a fisherman, was a career officer, head of the anti-terrorist units fighting in Kashmir, and retired as a colonel, one of the wealthier residents of Thumpoly. His wife is a school principal who (in spite of her profession?) is almost always smiling and happy.
Antony and Teresa both give much of their time to the community. Whether from modesty or simply relaying this village’s reality, Antony has told us often that giving to the community is the norm and not the exception.
There are certainly downsides to life in this crazy patchwork of a billion and a half people, over 25 spoken languages, millions living in slums alongside the abundance of IT employment, jewelry production and export, and a caste system which refuses to die, just to name a few challenges.
At the same time, there is a gentler way of life and a serene inner beauty to those who have less, in many cases a whole lot less, but retain an appreciation for what they do have.
So, yes, I’m a little sad to be moving on, even while I look forward to better physical conditions and an evening cocktail.
Ah! The contradictions of life.

To each her story; to each his unique voice

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Marie Renee lives outside of Geneva in a small village and bicycles to work every day. Her husband is one of three people whose job it is to administer the village. Their two children are grown and live close by. She speaks with them daily and they meet for a chat frequently.

A charming story of a life well-lived.

Travelers tend to reveal the cracks in their narrative to other travelers sharing their breakfast table morning after morning or their view of the sea from the balcony.

As it turns out, Marie Renee’s husband began experiencing burn out last year. Discontented and unhappy, he disturbed the calm waters of their life. Marriage counseling for them and a psychologist for him and Marie Renee found herself with a husband trekking alone in South America and an empty house. Her inner voice guided her to a course of daily yoga and Ayurvedic massage in Southern India.

The morning she shared her last breakfast with us before leaving for home she talked about what her future looked like from here. She emanated a gentleness and calm as she expressed hope that her husband would come home happier and healthy. I think I could hear love in her tone. Her voice was confident when she said that she’d be alright and she’d be back.

Talk to yourself as you would to someone you love.

After our three year absence we came back to find Vijay still the go-to guy at our beach guesthouse. His wife and nine year old daughter stay with his in-laws near the northern border of India with Bhutan while he works in Southern India. He shops and cooks, arranges transportation, supervises repairs, and makes sure all guests have what they need. His English is rudimentary but his cheerful desire to communicate overcomes most people’s reluctance to attempt real conversation with those whose language they barely speak.

The train ride home at the end of the season takes three days and he travels sleeper class, the lowest class of travel, with wall-to-wall people, no air conditioning, inedible food, and increasingly disgusting bathrooms. He gathers his small family and they return to their own home for the six weeks he can stay with them before returning to work.

This is his life. The life he’s chosen. He’s loyal to his job and is grateful to be able to support his family.

If you concentrate on what you don’t have you’ll never have enough.

A month ago tall, willowy Lillian buried her almost-90 year old father in the Christian cemetery a five minute walk from our guesthouse. It wasn’t easy plowing through all the bureaucracy involved in burying a French citizen – a tourist – in India. She’s hoping that having her father buried in India will make it easier for her to remain in India for longer periods of time without the necessity of leaving for a day every 30 days. And, anyway, she has no family left in France to be uncomfortable with her father being buried so far from home.

Never married, an only child with no children of her own, she has no ties to France…or anywhere else. She had one aunt but she’s dead, as is her mother. She’s basically alone in the world.

She first came to Thumpoly Beach in 2019 and has been back four times. After her first time she began to organize small groups to come on yoga and Ayurveda retreats. She became friendly with the owner and his family and today they are more family than she has ever had.

When she returned to France after her first visit she tried many yoga studios but ultimately arranged daily yoga online with her teacher from Thumpoly Beach. She was unable to explain her dissatisfaction with the yoga in France other than to say “It wasn’t like yoga in India.”

She plans to return to France to take care of her father’s affairs and settle the technicalities of renting out her apartment to a neighbor. As quickly as possible she’ll return to this seaside guesthouse to begin as permanent a life here as the Indian government will allow.

Come home to you. It’s where you belong.


From Here to the Sun and Back Sixty Times

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Human knowledge grows at a phenomenal rate. Think of the world as understood in Medieval days and as we understand it today. No need to go so far back. Think of the average Western household in Ozzie and Harriet’s time and your own household.

My partner, who could be called antagonistic toward maneuvering through life via screens, came home one day not too long ago decrying how much even he relies on screen technology in the course of his day. He checked the best route into the city with Waze to avoid as much traffic as possible. He parked his car using the Pango app. He received and acknowledged orders from clients via WhatsApp. While waiting for an appointment he got caught up with local, national, and international news online. He called me from his cell phone to mine to kill time in traffic on the way home.

And traveling? How did we manage when we started traveling to out of the way places 30 years ago? No booking.com, Airbnb, TripAdvisor; no Facebook groups of like-minded people offering tips or asking for information. No Uber or Ola to find and get us to hole-in-wall locations at a reasonable price. No google to locate pure veg restaurants.

Okay, all that technology is amazing. It makes our lives so much easier and so many things more accessible. And it also, of course, has huge downsides and creates many distressing societal issues. But this isn’t about that.

Human knowledge doesn’t begin and end with technological advances like those.

The medical world has now advanced to allow for many previously terminal cancers to become chronic cancer; cancer with which, with continuous treatment, people can live a quality life for decades. Prosthetics moveable by thought. I could go on but I don’t really know even a minuscule percentage of all the incredible innovations in the world of medicine.

And what about all the new information coming from the James Webb Space Telescope? It can see what the universe looked like around a quarter of a billion years (possibly back to 100 million years) when the first stars and galaxies started to form. Astrophysicists are scratching their heads wondering how their science could’ve gotten so much so wrong now that the telescope is providing new information.

The study of the cell – that most basic of components in the biological world – has changed so much over the past few decades that today we know that if the DNA from the cells found in one human body were stretched out in one continuous line it would reach the sun and back sixty times, Sixty. Six-oh. We didn’t even know DNA existed before the 1860s. It wasn’t known to be the carrier of genetic material until 1944 and became a reliable profiling mechanism only 40 short years ago.

Amazing, exciting, miraculous advances in human knowledge.

And yet…

Yesterday I tuned into day three of The Dalai Lama Global Vision Summit. I happened to choose Dr. Joe Loizzo’s talk about ethical leadership. I got as far as his call for every person on the entire planet to commit to becoming an ethical leader. Certainly I agree that each of us can and should develop leadership skills in our lives but, seriously!?! If the prerequisite to improving the unfortunate state of a world in conflict is for every single person on earth to become an ethical leader, it just ain’t gonna happen, bubba.

I mean look at us.

In the United States you have the cancel culture, a city proposing that each household pay $600,000 to help pay reparations to people who were never enslaved by a state which never had slavery, part of another state wanting to secede from that state to join a neighboring state, and people afraid to express their opinion for fear of being fired from their jobs. And in one 45 hour period, in one state, there were three mass shootings resulting in nineteen dead.

In England there have been three heads of state in three years. In Spain the birthrate has plummeted to 1.23%. In France the divorce rate is over 50%. The crime rate continues to rise in the Baltic countries. In France a man was found not guilty of a brutal murder of an elderly Jewish woman by reason of marijuana smoking.

In India, Muslims in the state of Kashmir continue to fight for independence. A recent reactivated Sikh movement has begun demanding their independence in the state of Punjab. The Muslim minority in the southern state of Kerala is quietly taking over local political positions.

In Israel political, social, and judicial reform has provided an opportunity for those interested in strengthening social and religious divisions. Extreme and violent language has become acceptable on both sides of any given issue. Defamation of character, personal attacks, and demagoguery are representative while, unsurprisingly, compromise is less and less of an acceptable option.

Humanity seems to be like the proverbial snake swallowing its own tail

We can create, investigate, research, change, and vastly improve our physical reality. But what good is it ultimately if we tear ourselves apart as human beings inhabiting a common earth?

Contrary to what many of us have come to believe when our phones have achieved the capability of supplying so much of our needs, no (emotionally healthy) human being is an island. We do, in fact, inhabit a common earth. And one of animals’ basic instincts is, pardon the expression, not to shit in their own home.

People! We’re unloading a lot of crap in our own homes. And it will not end well for us.

How about trying this? The next time you’re faced with a person whose opinions are not your own, take a breath, think to yourself that she, too, just like you, is a human being who wants to be happy. First and foremost, a human being. Immediately afterwards, who wants to be happy. Choose to distance yourself from her if you must, but treat her with the respect and, if it’s not stretching it too much, caring, that could provide for a gentler, less threatening world.

As far as human knowledge has taken our understanding so far, we only have one world. And if there turns out to be others we would do well to practice protecting the one we know about or we’ll just destroy any others we discover.

Stories Our Parents Tell Us

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Just back from a dip in The Arabian Sea.

I’m sitting on the wooden balcony just outside our room, watching the mid-morning calm waves, really ripples, just as I’ve been contented to do most of my waking hours over the past four days.

There’s a rhythm to the sea. Several actually. And a rhythm to life here dictated by the sea.

The waves arrive from the south and break on the shore traveling northward, but oddly seem to recede back into the sea at the same time along the shore for quite a way. I’m sure there are physicists among you who can explain that phenomenon to me in language I wouldn’t understand.

In the morning the sea is so calm that the ripples have no sea froth. By mid-morning they are already small waves complete with white caps. In the afternoon the waves become quite healthy. At night they are loud and powerful and often stormy.

When they are at their calmest the fishermen in this small village of Thumboly are out in force. They employ several different techniques but none of them catches much, and the few fish they catch are tiny. We’re told there was a time when fishing was a viable industry here but that time is long over.

By mid-morning there isn’t a soul on the pristine beach other than the occasional tourist. By mid-afternoon the fisherman are out repairing their nets or playing card gambling games , sitting on the sand in groups of six to ten men.

It’s a bit of a mystery where the women are. Home, I suppose. We see the occasional woman shopkeeper and saw a little girl out playing with a little boy on their shared bicycle on one of our afternoon walks. But mostly we see men and boys. Playing soccer. Playing volleyball on the beach. Walking the village streets.

Our days are quite serene.

My partner takes a morning beach walk early every morning. He always comes home with a new adventure to tell me about. One morning it was two children out walking their crab…on a leash.

We have a breakfast of some kind of unfamiliar grain dish in various forms, a vegetable in soupy sauce to put over it, papaya or some other fruit, and tea.

Once breakfast is digested I spend an hour on my yoga mat. My practice immediately returned to its full glory with the first unfurling of my mat opposite The Arabian Sea. It had sadly stagnated for the past six months.

We read, write, and chat most of the day to the accompaniment of the sea’s music.

In the late afternoon we take a walk through the narrow byways of the residential area, where people happily greet us with a friendly “Namaste” and often ask us in to eat (which we politely decline) or into the small commercial area just past the large church.

Today, we decided, was the day we would venture into the water. We were out there at 9:45 when the waves were just starting to be more than ripples. My partner went in first to scout out the drop off and reported that it was sudden but not too steep. The water was warm and delightful.

In I went. But not far and not for long.

Sixty years ago my mother told me about her good friend, Joseph. They were childhood friends and both enrolled at Northwestern University in Chicago. He was an engineering student and she was a drama major so they didn’t share classes but they shared social circles.

In their sophomore year they went to the beach one afternoon with a group of friends. A beach on Lake Michigan they often frequented. Like Israel’s Kineret, Lake Michigan could be treacherous in the afternoon, with a strong undercurrent.

As the story went, on that fateful day Joseph decided to go back in the water long after the others deemed it unwise. As my mother and her friends watched helplessly he was rolled over and over, dragged under and drowned. No one could save him without endangering their own lives.

I love the ocean. If I have a few free hours I sometimes jump in the car and drive an hour or more to walk along the beach. On my way home from visiting grandkids I often take the slower, longer route to stop off for a half hour of breathing sea air and watching sea birds hop in the shallows.

I’m not convinced that my mother’s story about her friend, Joseph, was true or just a cautionary tale, but it accompanies me to the beach every time I go. I rarely go in the water past my ankles or, if I do, it’s only a little above my waist. I need both feet firmly planted. I have what I like to call a healthy respect for the power of the ocean, while recognizing it as anxiety that’s not always justified.

I enjoy my grandchildren’s fearless frolicking in the waves and beyond but only while keeping an eye on the lifeguard to make sure she remains alert. I’m happy that some of my children and grandchildren surf; proof that Joseph isn’t a filter through which they experience the sea.

I’d love to ask my mother if she actually had a friend named Joseph and if she actually watched him drown in Lake Michigan. But she’s been dead for twenty years and, really, does it even matter?

Beware all you parents out there. Stories our parents tell us are powerful beyond logic.