Tag Archives: gratitude

But Nobody Died!

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Our youngest son, Rafael, moved with his family to New Jersey last night. We don’t know how long they’ll be there. We don’t know why they moved.

Neither of their excellent jobs requires the move. They have a beautiful house here that they renovated just 5 years ago to their exact specification. Their garden is flourishing, as are their kids. All four kids have many friends and are happy here. They have an active social life with friends and with their siblings/cousins. The other grandparents live a 15-minute walk away, are retired, and are always happy to have the kids over, pick them up, and take them places.

The given reason is that they get itchy when they’re in one place too long. They seek adventure (in New Jersey? 😂) They seek a challenge when things are too settled and smooth. Our son fears getting stodgy (he’s 42). At 40, having made partner at the most prestigious law firm here, he quit to do something else. He didn’t want to get stuck in a rut.

I sort of get it. I was that way myself. But once we had kids, I reframed my need for change into something more compatible with having first one and then, within 7 years, five kids. I changed professions six times; just about every 2 or 3 years. I wrote a few books. Once the kids were a bit older we traveled…a lot.

And, of course, the biggie – we moved from the US to Israel.

Rafael and his family moved to the US once already. They spent 5 years in Silicone Valley. He’s a hi-tech lawyer so that made sense. It provided him with the lift he needed to become one of the younger partners in his law firm. We missed him. The 10-hour time difference and 16-hour flight were brutal. But it made sense. And once was enough.

This move makes less sense to us.

Of course, we’re ten years older.

My in-laws were devastated when we moved our own young family to Israel. My mother-in-law literally keened and wailed when we parted at the airport. But, we felt, we were moving toward something. It was an ideological move. It was living our dedication to Zionism. We still feel that way.

What kind of ideology could possibly warrant a move to New Jersey – the state Americans love to mock? Clearly (to us) they are moving away from something and not toward something.

I get that, too. Living in Israel is not for the faint of heart.

Although it has one of the strongest, most stable economies in the world, wages are relatively low, real estate is ridiculously priced out of most young families’ reach, and many families struggle to get through the month. None of this applies to Rafael, who is blessed with financial stability.

Israel has been at war from the moment the state was established in 1948. Sometimes the war is more volatile and sometimes less, but it’s a constant threat. Our neighbors make no bones about hating us and have consistently made clear their goal of destroying our state and killing us all. The past two years, since the atrocities of October 7th, have been traumatic for every single family in Israel, and continue to be so.

Hard times, however, seem to strengthen Israelis’ resolve, not weaken it.

The divisiveness in Israeli society over politics and religion seems to be more of a factor in people leaving Israel than the war. The exaggerations and fears on each side lead to a lack of tolerance that feeds on itself.

For those of us who left comfortable lives in the US (or other Western countries) to live in Israel, we take a dim view of those who leave. It would be more accurate to say that many of us look upon it as betrayal of an ideal; betrayal of the country. In addition, given the current ugly anti-Semitism in the world, we believe that Jews should be aware today more than ever that Israel is the place for Jews to live.

We worry about our children and grandchildren’s safety. We worry about our grandchildren being taken out of a place where they are like most everybody else – it’s not an issue – and put in a place where they are ‘the other’.

We believe that our son and daughter-in-law have a tremendous amount of talent and skills to give to our country, and that our country needs people exactly like them.

And, perhaps most of all, I’ll miss being able to drive an hour whenever the spirit moves me and enjoy a good cup of coffee and great conversation with my youngest son. He’s the best! I’ll miss all the many special things about each and every one of those four delicious children. And, yes, sometimes, of course, I feel that strong twinge of sadness and loss in my heart.

Tisha B’Av is the day that our first two holy temples were destroyed. The date is commemorated with a 25-hour fast and special prayers. When tragedy strikes and someone is very sad we might say she has on her Tisha B’Av face.

That’s the face I see on many of our friends lately when considering our son’s departure with his beautiful family.

And, ironically enough, I want to console them.

“But nobody died! They’re only going to New Jersey!”

As hard as it is for us to imagine, they’re off on what they see as an adventure for their family. We made our choices. Some of them were great and some not so great, but they were ours to make. And if they turned out to be not so great, we readjusted and reframed and began a new adventure. Or at least I hope you all did, because we sure did. Why be stuck when life is so fleeting?

I, personally, believe they’ll be back in a couple of years. After all…New Jersey. And in the meantime, how fortunate that in this day and age there’s Facetime and WhatsApp and convenient flights.

They’re a happy, successful, healthy couple with four amazing, funny, quirky, interesting, healthy kids. We’ve had them near us for five blessed years and, G-d willing, we’ll have them near us again one of these days.

So chin up, friends, no Tisha B’Av faces, please.

Lucky, Blessed, or Something Else?

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I was reading a book by one of my favorite authors the other day (Table for Two by Amor Towles). In a bit of a digression, where some of the best of his extraordinarily expressive language lives, he took me back over 50 years to my first encounters with my husband. When I say he took me back, I mean in that instant I felt a flash of pure joy all through my body. It wasn’t just a memory of thought. It was a full body experience of the senses.

I saw him sitting with one blue-jeaned leg dangling, the other under his butt, leaning forward, crossed arms resting on his thighs. His hair was dark and long – a little under his chin all over. He was wearing a dark green, long sleeve t-shirt. His eyes were sparkling – sorry if that sounds kitsch but I don’t know how else to convey the feeling that his eyes conveyed.

I imagine the immense talent of an author to create such an event in his reader makes it all worth it.

It was a flash. No more than 5 seconds. But it started me on a journey.

My husband and I have been together for over 50 years. We thought we were all grown up, adults, when we met. We’d both been living on our own for several years. He was 23 and I was 21. Kids. It was the early 70s. We’d come of age in the 60s with all that entails: the music, the drugs, the irreverence, the belief that we could change the world.

He was the political activist: co-founder of the very first Earth Day, member of SDS (until their anti-Israel stance, an anathema to him even in those days), arrested at anti-Vietnam war demonstrations. I was the flower child, grooving to The Jefferson Airplane and Country Joe and the Fish on the grass in Golden Gate Park, selling candles at Woodstock.

We fell in love over bowls of chili at Rennebom’s Drug Store, 6 foot tall photographs of Galapagos turtles, street parties, and listening to Nixon resign the presidency where we sat in a small bar in Texarkana and the big-haired bartender cried.

We were first stunned to find out we were going to be parents and then confident that we would be able to do it all. Finish graduate school, feed and house the three of us, and continue to change the world

I had the confidence and sense of adventure to be immediately excited at the prospect of what our love had produced (how hard could it be?) and he had the concern about how we were actually going to make it work to keep us grounded. From food stamps, to married student housing, to a cooperative day care solution, our two natures combined to see him through his Masters degree, and nourish a beautiful, sweet natured little girl who constantly charmed us both.

From digging our car out of the snow to get to a pharmacy during a miscarriage scare, to meandering with my best friend, our first daughter, through the arboretum, to the shock of looking at the primitive ultrasound of our twin babies two years later we lived the roller coaster together.

As anyone who’s been lucky or blessed or stubborn enough to persevere and arrive at the point where a marriage can be labeled a Long Term Relationship knows, it’s not always smooth sailing. Plenty of drama, tears, and crises. And it doesn’t always seem worth it. Raising five children with no financial support, not having experience a good example of parenting, and doing it all in a country with a new language and culture is not a recipe for harmony.

I know that my spontaneity, sense of adventure, confidence, and love of change can be scary and downright annoying for someone whose natural need to think things through, check things out, and retain a sense of skepticism and pessimism can drive me from eye rolling to distraction.

We started our lives together as kids, believing ourselves to be quite grown up, unformed but quite sure of our opinions about and view of the world. Life is a better argument for Darwinism than the finch in the Galapagos. It molds us as we make many seemingly inconsequential decisions (as well as the obvious big ones, of course) and we evolve without realizing just how much until a trigger has us looking back at the journey as Amor Towles triggered me.

It’s satisfying for me, having gone on this journey, to realize that it’s been a good journey so far.

Sure, I would change some of my decisions and behaviors if I had it to do over again, but I also forgive myself because I remember where I started, who I was, and who I’ve become. I couldn’t have made those better decisions or behaved in those better ways before I became who I’ve become.

One very gratifying feeling is that of great appreciation of and love for my husband and partner of over fifty years. Sure, I would change some of his behaviors and decisions if someone put me in charge of such things. It’s a very good thing that no one will be doing that because I have a feeling it’s the disconsonance of our natures that makes it all work.

And, after all, he was doing yoga every morning for over a month in Rishikesh and is even beginning to be less squeamish about calling it yoga instead of exercise.

I don’t know where I’m going with this Ode to My Long Time Relationship just as I don’t know where our life together will take us from this charming old fashioned haveli lodging in Jaipur. I think I write partially out of nostalgia for a simpler time when couples more often stuck it out long enough to reap the benefits of the companionship and kindness of a Long Term Relationship. And maybe partially out of an awareness of the constantly evolving nature of love born from extended travel together.

It’s a wonderful thing and I wish it for more people even as I recognize that the Western world has been moving in the other direction.

I think this sociological evolution is the bastard child of good intentions. In my generation’s desire to change the world we went dashing down the path with little awareness of possible consequences. They’ve not all been good.

But that’s a thought for a different time and place.

Do We Really Get It?

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All told, we’ve been in India almost a year. We’ve spent over two months in Kerala, four months in Rishikesh, and a week to ten days in Hampi, Meysore, Delhi, Goa, Mumbai, Varanasi, Darjeeling, Khajuraho yogashram, Kaziranga, Puri, Shimla, Dharamshala, Dalhousie, Chennai, Pondicherry, Auroville, Bandhavgargh, Rambagh, Jim Corbett, and the Andaman Islands.

My partner has been learning Hindi off and on for 7 years. Between his Hindi and Google audio translate we’ve had many conversations with people about their lives and their opinions about many issues – geopolitical, philosophical, sociological, religious, and how they view the future.

We’ve observed familial interactions, public and less public behaviors, hygiene and eating habits, changing clothing preferences, and acceptable and less acceptable commercial activities.

We’ve experienced the kindness, patience, and acceptance of Indians in many different situations from driving to waiting in line to communication difficulties to cultural misunderstandings.

When asked how many children an Indian has they will invariably give a number that reflects only male children. Mothers as well as fathers respond in this way. Sexist? I don’t think so. It seems that in traditional Indian families (and in spite of rapid and visible change it’s estimated that over 90% of Indian marriages are still arranged marriages) sons remain in the nuclear family home after they marry. Their wives become subservient to the matriarch who travels with them on vacations and sets the tone for parenting. Daughters move on to their spouse’s family. They are only temporarily part of their parents’ lives. I’ve come to believe that is why they’re not included in the natural spontaneous reply about the number of children in the nuclear family.

Is this belief accurate? Maybe. Maybe not. One thing I’ve learned is there’s no point in asking for clarification. Such requests are met with puzzled expressions followed by acceptance of my theory regardless of its accuracy or inaccuracy.

Here’s a much more prosaic, but much more day to day question I’ve been asking in vague euphemistic terminology since our very first visit in 2016. Why don’t Indians, especially women, use toilet paper? It’s excellent for the ecology of every country and certainly one with a billion and a half people, and yet… What’s the deal? It’s all well and good that our tushes and other intimate places are actually cleaner after that spritz from the bidet but what is it about walking around wet that doesn’t annoy them? And is it even hygienic?

They’ve learned that foreigners need toilet paper. Hotels provide small rolls of it and are happy to replenish it as frequently as their patrons allow themselves to make the request (we tend to buy our own to avoid the issue altogether). But when asked why they don’t require it themselves I’ve been met with puzzled expressions and literally no answers, They don’t understand why I do require it but accept it and I don’t understand why they don’t require it but still ask from time to time.

The nearest things I’ve received to an answer have been (1) the concept of the comfort of dry being preferable over damp is a Western concept (really?!?) and (2) you can carry a small towel to dry off, keep it in a small plastic bag all day and wash it in the evening (a nice solutionbut I doubt Indian women actually do that).

That may be similar to something an Indian friend of ours said recently. He owns an amazing guesthouse literally 50 meters from a pristine Arabian Sea beach. He’s made lots of improvements over the past few years. Indian tourists are accustomed to ordering their meals and eating in their rooms. They seem to prefer it. It might be a question of the chicken and the egg. Maybe at one time hotels didn’t have restaurants. So our friend didn’t have a restaurant but realized that the (mostly foreign) guests preferred not to eat in their rooms so he added a really nice place to eat.

His showers had no hot water. Granted it’s quite hot in Thumboly Beach and the locals see no need for hot water but others do. As a result, he decided to arrange hot water and told us he had done so. In most Indian showers there’s a shower head and also a faucet beneath it about a foot annd an half off the floor with a bucket and plastic cup below it. Turns out he set up water in the lower faucet and not in the shower head.

When we laughed about it with him he said something quite true and profound. He said that one of the differences between Israelis and Indians is that Israelis look at something and immediately start figuring out ways to improve upon it while Indians look at the same thing, accept it as is, and immediately figure out a way to live with it. There are pluses and minuses in both approaches.

And what about respect for personal space, acceptable noise levels in public places or in hotels late at night, what it means to be a couple, the relative merit of avoidance or honesty in confronting legitimate disagreement or misunderstanding; the cultural differences go in and on.

Even when we think we get it we have to keep asking ourselves if we really get it.

There’s no escaping the fact that part of the joy in being in India is the adventure of the Western shrug of shoulders or the Indian wag of the head. The humor in “I don’t know.” The puzzled expression followed by a smile.

You aren’t in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. And ain’t that grand?

South India Revisited 2025

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Our third week in the small fishing village of Thumboly Beach, half an hour by tuk tuk to Alapphuzha (aka Alleppey) about an hour from Kochi (aka Cochin). Our third time here at Colonel’s Beach Villa. It gets better every time and harder to leave.

Our room has an upstairs balcony that looks out onto The Arabian Sea. The sound of the waves provides constant companionship – gentle in the morning and more forceful from afternoon on into the night.

My partner goes out around 6 every morning to watch the fisherman carefully removing their catch from their nets. It’s a careful process. Some days there might be over 50 kilo of sardines and some days maybe a paltry kilo or two. Dogs and crows wait patiently nearby waiting for the rejects to be thrown their way.

Later in the day, after a delicious, simple vegetarian breakfast, and after reading and chatting on the balcony until the day cools off, we go for a walk around the village or take a tuk tuk to Alapphuzha.

People in the village have become familiar with us. They smile warmly and speak with us in the limited English they know. When I hurt my arm and had a bandage on it they seemed to all know about it and expressed concern. We stop in to say hello to Tomas at his market and Elsbet at her small store. The people at the corner fruit store let us know if they have pineapple because they know how much we like it.

Villagers are quite laid back. Many women walk together in pairs or more in the cooling day holding umbrellas to protect them from the sun. They wear light long dresses with slits up the side and leggings underneath. Most women do not work outside their homes and the daily socializing is a pleasant part of their day.


Many men can be seen sitting together on plastic chairs or on the sand under trees on the beach playing Rummy. They go out at 4 am in their small boats, fish until 6, gather their catch from the nets until 7, and then take their share of the day’s catch to sell on the nearby highway.

The guesthouse calls their tuk tuk to take us to Alapphuzha when we go there. He charges less than the tuk tuks we might flag down in the village. He drops us off in the commercial area where we like to absorb the colorful atmosphere and sometimes pick up a few things. There are aromatic spices, fresh garlands, fresh fruit and vegetable stands, kitchen shops, clothing shops including places to choose material, get measured, and have clothes made and ready in 24 hours. There’s an excellent bookstore and our favorite coffee shop by the river. We always stop in to say hello to Raul there, have a good cup of coffee and some fresh cold cut up watermelon.

The two young men from northeastern India – a 3 or 4 day train ride away – who do just about everything around the guesthouse are very quiet but have warmed up to us. They make us special little treats when they can. They know how we like our tea and coffee and when. They’re happy to see us in the morning and when we come back from our wanderings. Our customs, especially our Shabbat observance, are unusual for them. But they accept and adjust to everything with interest.

The serenity of The Arabian Sea, the beautiful garden, and the peaceful nature of the people provide the perfect background for my yoga practice. A small patch of red cemented patio just outside my door, shaded by a outhanging is just the right size and atmosphere. Teaching for 15 years, I often feel a staleness creep into my practice. Time spent in Southern India always inspires me to change it up, deepen it, renew the spirituality of it.

No hot water comes out of the shower head. At first we were taken aback. What?! No hot water for our shower? There’s a bucket and a big plastic cup inside. Hot water comes out of a spigot into the bucket. Cold water from the shower head to soap up and hot water from the cup in the bucket to wash off the soap. What!?! But we’re ENTITLED! Get with the program. This is India. You’d be surprised how quickly the system makes perfect sense in this climate.

Adapt. Adjust. Accept. And be pleasantly surprised when a cabinet shows up after you mention it’d be nice.

The city can be a cacophony of people and vehicles but absolutely serene and clean compared to Delhi.

It’s difficult to explain my love for Southern India and this area specifically. I wish my words t could make you smile and feel as happy as I feel when I’m here.

In a world so full of strife, confusion, fear, aggression and diviseness, Southern India is full of the opposite of all that. A local friend here thinks it’s because there have been no wars here for centuries. The culture looks askance at hostility and unkindness. Perhaps. Whatever the reason, I wish I could package this place and gift all of you with it.. .

Cody Nite Rodeo

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I grew up and went to school with kids who were members of the 4H club. Each one of them had a project every year so that they could enter a competition at the annual State Fair. Back then, one year it might be raising a pig from birth to market weight (300 pounds/136 kilograms or more). Another it might be growing the largest cucumber or melon.

There were pie contests at the State Fair and games and rides. But the main attraction for me was always the rodeo. I never tired of the suspense of that 8 seconds of bone-rattling ride on the back of a bucking bronco or bull ride. (the bull ride was reduced to 6 seconds this year) I always sat on the edge of my bench until the girls rounded the last barrel in the barrel race event without knocking over a barrel and cheered them on that last super fast race back to the finish. When I worked at a horse stable for a summer in my teens I imagined myself one day entering the barrel race myself.

So it’s no wonder that while making plans for our American road trip, getting tickets to the Cody Night Rodeo was high on my list of priorities. It was written right there on the site that there are always enough tickets and every ticket is good for any date during the summer. But I read it over several times to be absolutely sure. This was one event I wasn’t going to miss. More importantly, my partner wasn’t going to miss it. A New York City boy, he stutters when asked if he’s been to a rodeo. I think his not being sure is a sure sign that he’s never been. Once at a rodeo, there’s no forgetting.

The Cody Night Rodeo is held every night during the tourist season. There are thousands of people every night. People come from all over the United States and from some foreign countries. The competitors are amateurs but many are well-seasoned amateurs. There are some father-son teams for the calf roping or tie-down roping event and some siblings who compete against each other in other events. There are entries from states as far away as Texas, over 1000 miles southeast, and home-grown entries.

The American flag was flying high in numerous places around the stadium. Horses paraded around the stadium with a flag-holding rider as the stadium filled. People stood as the flag went by them. A large screen showed scenes across America as accompaniment to the poem Why We Stand by Maury Tate read with a heavy cowboy accent. Google it. It doesn’t get much more patriotic than that.

The MC called out the names of states one by one asking if there was anyone from each. People cheered when they heard the name of their state. After Californians cheered for their home state the MC said ‘ “Welcome to America, Californians!” It got a big, good-natured laugh. This was a crowd well aware of the political divide.

We chatted with the couple sitting behind us on the bleachers as we waited for the first event and in between events. They were a Minnesota farming couple; farming the land their parents and grandparents had farmed before them. Two of their 7 kids (all grown and married) work the farm with them today, and the others live close by. Turned out that the man had recently begun a process of semi-retirement so he and my partner had a lot to discuss. The women, Kim, and I shared stories of our children and grandchildren. She was used to people being surprised to hear she has 13 grandchildren and two on the way. She was just as surprised to see that I wasn’t and that we have 16 grandchildren of our own.

She talked about the degeneration of the American school system and the introduction of gender education in elementary school. All of her school-age grandchildren are home-schooled as a result of both of those issues. She expressed dismay at the schism between the woke population (which confuses her) and what she believes to be the majority of Americans who value family and remain staunch patriots.

They both expressed empathy and sorrow about the atrocities of October 7th and the war with Gaza. We’d heard that a lot so far on our trip and it sounded very genuine.

The best, most exciting bucking bronco rides are, of course, on the backs of the wildest, craziest broncos. If you’re wondering why those horses buck like maniacs, a flank strap or bucking strap is used to encourage the horses to kick out straighter and higher when bucking. The strap is about 4 inches wide, covered in sheepskin or neoprene, and fastens behind the widest part of the horse’s abdomen. But that doesn’t entirely explain why some bucking broncos are truly uncontrollable to the point where the two wranglers whose job it is to get them back in their stalls after their run struggle to accomplish the task. Some horses are just maniacs, I guess.

The barrel racing, a woman’s event added to rodeos in 1931 in Stamford, Texas, was tense. Trying not to knock over barrels and to be the fastest at it at the same time is an exact contradiction. Some of the girls were high school students. They’d probably been barrel racing since elementary school. Those girls and women could fly!

Only one competitor managed to stay on his bucking bronco for the entire 8-second ride. A clear winner. None of the competitors stayed on the bulls for the full 6 seconds. The horns on those animals are daunting. You’d think the riders would stay on just to avoid them, but it ain’t easy.

One of my least favorite events is also the one many people would like to see eliminated because it seems to be especially cruel to animals. Riding on the back of a horse or bull might be annoying to the animals or it might be a thrill for them to get back at human beings. I remember in Norway the dogs were rearing to pull the sleds – they were mostly annoyed that it took us so long to get started. Really – who are we to presume that we know the druthers of animals. But calf-roping doesn’t look like much fun for the calves. The lassoing part takes skill. I can vouch for that. The main skill of the girls’ marching group in my high school was lassoing. I never ever got the hang of it. Tying the calves’ legs as fast as you can just seems cruel.

Everyone had a great time. Lots of beer. Lots of smiles and laughter. Lots of strangers talking to each other and cheering side by side. An evening of good, clean fun. Small kids, teenagers, adults, and old folks (like us). At one point kids were invited into the ring for a quasi-treasure hunt. Dozens of them joined the game, running to and fro. The winners, a boy, and girl who looked to be about 10, couldn’t smile big enough holding up their small trophies.

A fun respite from phone screens and politics.

If you can find a rodeo to go to, do it! You might be surprised how much you enjoy it.

The big winner of the evening by far was this guy…

The Winner

The Wild Wild West circa 2024

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Moving on from the Battlefield of Little Bighorn, still under the influence of the drama of the Native American tragedy, we pulled into the town of Cody, Wyoming, population 10,224, home of the Cody High School Broncs and Fillies.

Still the wild west, home of the American Cowboy.

We found our B&B easily and were immediately enchanted by the deer in the neighboring yard who stared at us for a minute and returned to munching on someone’s lawn, and the cheerful Black Eyed Susan flowers winking at us from the yard of our B&B.

We knew we weren’t in Kansas anymore (or maybe we WERE in Kansas – another Great Plains state) upon entering the Robin’s Nest B&B. It turned out that the hosts were long-time transplants from Colorado. Robin herself greetied us.

On the wall in a strategic spot was a plaque stating clearly the values and beliefs of the couple. There were also anti-abortion bumper stickers in a pile on a shelf by the door and various books of scripture on just about every flat surface.

Robin was chatty – in a good way – and cheerful, abounding with good things to say about her adopted town and her experiences as a b&b host. She had all sorts of recommendations for our brief stay in Cody, all of which were on our to-do list. It was helpful to receive tips, though, such as devoting two days to the Buffalo Bill Center of the West Museum (we did and you really need 2 days), and parking near the exit to the parking lot at the Cody Night Rodeo.

Our room was crowded with memorabilia and equipment from the Old West. The big bed was very comfy. It was hot in the room when we arrived. The lack of air conditioning in this part of the country was something we’d have to get used to during our trip. Robin insisted that the desert cooler would suck the hot air out of the room making the room sufficiently cool for sleep. I was skeptical but she proved to be totally right.

Anyone who’s been to a classic B&B knows that breakfast is often the big attraction. Most hosts make a big effort to prepare elegant and special breakfast food. It’s a point of pride. Robin’s Nest was no exception. There were homemade pancakes with a cream cheese filling, a refreshing, thick berry juice, plenty of toast with fresh butter and homemade jams, and freshly cut fruit. What made this breakfast stand out, though, were the 2 minutes before the meal. Once the food was on the table Robin’s husband asked all six of us to bow our heads in prayer. A first for us. It was quite a nice prayer of thankfulness. The last sentence was in reference to Jesus – we could’ve done without the last part – but it was so genuine on his part, with total cluelessness and lack of concern for political correctness, and absolutely no malice – that it was like a breath of fresh air.

In general, we repeatedly ran into an unabashed love and commitment to family, country, and God during our travels in this part of the country.

Later he mentioned to my partner that they’d had two guests from Israel the previous month. He was shocked to learn that they didn’t believe in God. I wasn’t present for that conversation. I would’ve loved to have known if he thought all people in Israel believe in God or all people in the world. I think it’s the former but it could be the latter. Living in Cody one can be forgiven for thinking that everyone in the world believes in God because I venture to guess that everyone in Cody does.

And, yet, not everyone in Cody is totally as one would expect in the town of Cody we mostly experienced. We ended up in a coffee shop that was right out of California culture. Run by aging hippies, they keep laid-back hippie hours. They open mid-morning and close in the early afternoon. Dogs sleep on their floors. They serve coffee with alternative milks and offer non-gluten pastries. The coffee was great and the pastries were even better. Local artists were given prominence on the walls and the bookshelves.

The Buffalo Bill Center of the West Museum was a huge surprise to us snobs of the big cities of America. Our expectations were low but the reality equals some of the best museums we’ve explored. There are five distinctly different wings to the museum –

  1. Natural History of the West
  2. History of the West
  3. History of Guns
  4. Art of the West
  5. Native American History

We both learned a lot of new information about the American West; the pioneers’ way of life, the difficulties and accomplishments of rugged individualism, and a more in-depth knowledge of the lives of the famous (and infamous) people memorialized in tv series, movies, and songs. The central figure, of course, is Wild Bill Hickok (even the accurate spelling of his name was news to us) -Bill Cody.

We were surprised to learn that Wild Bill, a stagecoach driver, lawman, spy for the Union Army during the Civil War, scout, actor, and professional gambler, was a proponent of women’s rights and compassion for Native Americans.

As a result of learning so much about Wild Bill, we took a bit of a detour later in our trip to Deadwood, South Dakota, to see the place where he was shot and killed by an unsuccessful gambler, Jack McCall, during a poker game. The hand he was holding at the time – two pairs; black aces and eights, is known to this day as the ‘dead man’s hand’.

The first day at the museum I chose to go to the wing with art of the west while my partner, a water ecologist, chose to go the natural history wing. We were both tired and ready to leave after our three hours at the museum, each having only seen two wings. Both he and I were super enthusiastic about what we’d seen separately. We decided to take Robin up on her recommendation and come back the next day. We got there bright and early the next day and spent an additional two hours there.

It was shocking to experience the professionalism, original and well-thought-out approach, and depth of presentation exhibited in the natural history wing of the museum. Going to natural history museums all around the world is a must for us. My partner spends many hours of enjoyment in each while I bail after two hours tops and indulge my love of museum shops and coffee hangouts. This museum, located as it is, nevertheless rivals all the natural history museums we’ve seen around the globe, including Manhattan (clearly there’s less on display but the quality and presentation are equal). Someone or several someones with deep pockets must have had a special place in her/his heart for the topic and the location.

We had purchased tickets for The Cody’ Night Rodeo almost seven months earlier. It was that important to us. I grew up in Texas where state fairs and rodeos, 4H competitions of pig raising and pie baking, were common and always lots of fun. My partner grew up in Brooklyn and then Long Island. The closest he’d ever come to a rodeo was watching Stoney Burke on t.v in the early 60s. We knew that no matter what else we did in that part of the United States, we were going to a rodeo. Cody’s Night Rodeo is famous. We actually chose to be in Cody, which turned out to be my partner’s very favorite town we visited, because of the Cody Night Rodeo.

But more about that in my next post.

Life in The Great Plains

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The Great Plains of the United States is a vast area with few people and beautiful vistas. You can drive on the open roads in Montana, North and South Dakota, Wyoming, Nebraska, and Kansas for hours and see only a handful of cars. The houses are few and far between and without exception have an American flag flying in front. Each town’s population sign boasts between 29 and 1500 residents.

On our way from the Battlefield of Little Bighorn to Cody, Wyoming, where we’d be spending the night before heading into Yellowstone Park, we stopped in for some lunch at a small diner in the town of Lovell, Wyoming, population 2320.

During our travels, we’ve come to expect quirky, odd people and sights, but so far in this part of America what’s stood out the most is the utter normalcy of the people and towns. The diner was quite ordinary. Plain tables and chairs. Around one table were four middle-aged women having a girls’ lunch. Otherwise, we were alone. The menu was also nothing special. Hamburgers, french fries, pizza, tuna salad sandwiches.

And then there was this sight –

No one seemed to think it strange. I guess man and bird are regulars.

Our teenage server was a fresh-faced, blonde girl. No tattoos. No piercings. No make-up. Just a few freckles and a friendly smile. I found myself wondering about her life. Being a teenager in a town of 2000 people in the Great Plains. The nearest city, Cody, boasting 10,000 residents, is an hour away.

After we’d eaten our sandwich and were waiting for coffee, I approached the girl and asked if she’d be open to talking about her life. She nodded with a respectful ‘yes’ and a shy smile. I started with an easy question.

“What do kids your age do for fun around here?”

She didn’t hesitate. She told me the obvious – there’s nothing to do in Lovell – but went on to say that, as a result, kids make their own fun. They sometimes build a campfire and sit around talking and telling stories. They go fishing. Most teenagers work in the summer and often after school during the school year.

I mentioned that I’d noticed the lack of tattoos, piercings, and make-up and asked if that was the norm. She replied that most families in Lovell are Mormon (she’s not), and have been brought up not to find those kinds of things attractive. There’s a strict dress code at her school, which is fine with her, but she wishes they were allowed to wear leggings. (that was her only objection)

I asked if she saw herself settling down in Lovell after school or moving to a bigger city. With a mischievous smile, she said that her dream was to go to New York City and become a cosmetologist but added that she’d likely get married and settle down in Lovell, or maybe as far away as Cody.

Interestingly enough, her parents divorced when she was 10 and after a year living with her mother in Denver, Colorado, she chose to move to Lovell to live with her father. Of course, the explanation may lie simply in a troubled relationship with her mother, but I wondered later if it was the siren call of a simpler life surrounded by stark natural beauty.

There are undoubtedly inconveniences living in a tiny town with limited options. But in the towns of the Great Plains states, there’s also the inspiration and peacefulness of being surrounded by natural beauty. The rush and tension that people love to hate in the big population centers are absent. There’s virtually unlimited space. Zero crowding on the roads, in the restaurants; no long lines in the grocery store or the post office (which each town has!). From our limited experience, no one is in a hurry. They have time for conversations with the neighbor ringing up their purchases and the customers in the diner.

At our server’s age, I was also a server in a restaurant. I worked in an Indian restaurant, wearing an elegant sari, where the choices on the menu were exotic and expensive. The restaurant was on the river that ran through the tourist area of San Antonio and was constantly packed with people. Without a reservation, people were out of luck. I saved my tip money to get the hell out of Dodge. San Antonio, a city of over a million people, was too familiar. I wanted nothing more than to strike out, on my own, for more interesting pastures.

It took me 50 years to reach the point that our server reached by 16. The point where I appreciate the empty open road, the farms where the closest neighbor is at least a kilometer away. When I can often think of nothing better than sitting in a wooden chair looking out at a calm lake for an hour or two with an unopened book on my lap.

Lubec, Maine

I used to think that living in the city provided more opportunity for connection to other people. I imagined living in rural areas to be isolating. Living in a small community of 5000 people created doubt in my mind and observing people and talking to people in The Great Plains sealed my recognition of my faulty reasoning. I now think that, while it clearly depends on the individual, living among fewer people may very well encourage kinder, more intimate connection than living in a city.

As the miles rolled by, we were finding the sheer size of the open, empty plains comforting. Neither my partner nor I being particularly stressed out or hyper people, we were, nevertheless, experiencing an inner loosening in our very souls.

I often thought of travel from Wisconsin, where I was at university for more years than I care to think about, to San Antonio, as boring. Lots of wheat fields. Lots of cornfields. they go on and one and…on.

The boredom of the 70s through the 90s is today’s meditation.

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.

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.