Tag Archives: travel

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.

Deadly Clash of Cultures: the Sad History of the Native American

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The Z Bar Motel in Buffalo, Wyoming, is a great place for a family vacation. Yes, it’s in the middle of nowhere, but very convenient for our travels, halfway between Mt. Rushmore and the Battlefield of Little Bighorn. It’s a motel made up of small (and larger) cabins. The two men in the cabin next to ours were from North Carolina. They come every year to escape the heat. Very friendly, they sat on their front porch schmoozing for large parts of the day, happy to chat with other guests of the motel as they pass by.

Our cabin had a fridge and everything else we needed. Unfortunately, it also had a flooded bathroom later in the evening. Luckily, the water didn’t escape into the room proper. We debated whether we should ask for a discount upon check-out the next morning but decided against it. It can’t be easy trying to make a living from tourists there. There’s really not much around there for many miles in every direction.

The decision was taken out of our hands the next day when the owner told my partner that he would be refunding our payment in full. (I checked later and he had, indeed, issued a full refund) Only three cabins were affected by the plumbing problem, ours being one of them. When traveling – and in life in general – we’ve learned that the best attitude is one of kindness and flexibility. We also benefit – not always financially – but always in our hearts.

An hour and a half up the road we pulled into the Battle of Little Bighorn memorial.

Many years ago, on a whim, I purchased a $10 senior pass for life to all US National Parks for myself which included other passengers in my car. At the time one of our sons still lived in the States and I figured we might even get some use out of a lifetime pass. It was the ranger’s idea in the John Muir forest in California. It came in handy on this trip. We saved ourselves over $100 and had a feeling of satisfaction. It included the Little Bighorn memorial, though not Crazy Horse since that’s a private endeavor. It would be just too cynical for a monument to a warrior betrayed fatally by the US government to be a national park.

We’d been listening to Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee by Dee Brown, anticipating our visit to Little Bighorn. The book is written primarily from the point of view of and in sympathy with the Native American Nation. Having been brought up on the opposite perspective, it was interesting to learn the history of Native American/settler relations from this point of view. What became clear was that aside from the excitement, enthusiasm, and greed of the settlers, and the often apparent disregard for Native Americans as human beings by the US Army, it was a tragic clash of cultures that led to cruelty on both sides and horrendous misunderstandings with terrible consequences.

Before the explorers and settlers invaded Native American lands, the primary conflict was between Mexicans and Native Americans. Mexicans often kidnapped Native American children for use as slaves and Native Americans retaliated by stealing horses. Odd perhaps but with none of the butchery and cruelty that was eventually representative of the settlers, the army, and the Native Americans. The Mexican and Native American cultures, while different from each other, had more in common.

It took years for Native Americans to grasp the concept of hunger for ownership of land that precluded the use of that land by others. They’d always had free access to vast tracts of land – virtually any land they wanted or needed for hunting or growing food for their needs – and considered all of the land as their home, belonging only to the holy spirits. They saw no reason not to share it with the settlers, though they were certainly territorial between tribes and there were consequences when tribes didn’t respect the non-verbal, non-contractual rights of one tribe to the land on which they hunted. The White settlers and army utilized these tribal conflicts to their advantage by allying themselves with one or more tribes against others. It would be years before Native Americans realized that the rules of the game had changed. As a result, they were slow in reacting.

Once they caught up they were no less cruel than their White counterparts. Taking the worst from their experience with the Mexicans, they kidnapped women and children. Taking the worst from their experience with US troops, they butchered their enemy with vehemence and carried out indiscriminate atrocities.

Beginning in the 17th century, settlers and soldiers came well-equipped with the weapons of their time; sidearms, shotguns, rifles, muskets, and infectious disease. The Native Americans initially had bows and arrows, tomahawks, and little resistance to the diseases of the Europeans. It would be years before Native Americans obtained rifles to arm themselves. By that time their numbers had been decimated by disease and warfare. It is estimated that 80% of Native Americans were dead by the 1he middle of the 19th century as a result of White colonization. It is estimated that no more than 2000 colonists, settlers, and US soldiers were killed during the so-called Indian Wars.

(As an aside, the so-called Vietnam War is known as the American War in Vietnam. I have no idea what Native Americans call the Indian Wars. I couldn’t find such a reference. But surely they have a different name for that part of their history.)

This violent and tragic history of Native American-European relations is littered with misunderstanding of cultural differences, broken promises and treaties, and the racism of those centuries when many Whites simply did not regard people of color as human beings. Whoever does not recognize that fact cannot possibly understand the murder of unarmed Native American women and children such as the 1864 Sand Creek Massacre, ostensibly in retaliation for the murder of a family of White settlers. Verbal and written descriptions of Native Americans as being like savage dogs (Andrew Jackson), savage as the wolf (George Washington), and calls for the total extermination of all Native Americans abound (too many to list).

History has shown that the inability to see an entire population group, in this case Native Americans, as human beings, is always the precursor to insensitivity at the least and unspeakable cruelty at worst.

Which brings us to The Battlefield of Little Bighorn, also known as Custer’s Last Stand.

In 1875, after gold was discovered in South Dakota’s Black Hills, the U.S. Army ignored treaty agreements and invaded the region. This betrayal, one of many, led many Sioux and Cheyenne tribesmen to leave their reservations and join Chief Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse in Montana. By the late spring of 1876, more than 10,000 Native Americans had gathered in a camp along the Little Bighorn River.

In mid-June, three columns of U.S. soldiers lined up against the army. A force of 1200 Native Americans turned back the first column. Five days later, General Alfred Terry ordered George Custer’s 7th Calvary to scout ahead for enemy troops. On June 25, in arrogant and reckless disregard for opposing opinions, including his Indigenous guide, Mitch Bouyer, Custer decided to press ahead rather than wait for reinforcements. Many historians believe he was more interested in increasing his reputation for a run for President of the United States than in the cautious advancement of his troops.

In any case, by mid-day on June 25, Custer’s 600 men entered the Little Bighorn Valley. Word had quickly spread of the impending attack. The older Sitting Bull rallied the warriors while Crazy Horse set off with a large force to meet the attackers head-on. Custer and some 200 men in his battalion were attacked by as many as 3000 Native Americans. Within an hour, Custer and all of his soldiers were dead. According to Cheyenne oral history, Custer himself was killed by Buffalo Calf Road Woman.

Standing at the many marked locations above the Little Bighorn Valley, reading descriptions of the battle that happened 50-100 meters away was an intense experience for me. I could smell the blood, feel the sweat, hear the war cries, sense the exuberance of the Native American warriors and the terror of the soldiers. I don’t know why it affected me so strongly, just that it was one of the fiercest reactions I’ve ever had in a historical location. Standing on the steep bluffs, I could feel the thrill of the Native American warriors – finally, finally, reigning victorious. After just one hour, 268 US soldiers lay dead, and no more than 100 Native Americans.

The feeling of accomplishment, justified revenge, and taking back control, was short-lived.

The battle at Little Bighorn reinforced popular opinion as to the savagery of the Native American Nation and served as a rallying point for the United States to increase the efforts to force native peoples onto the reservation lands. Within one year of the battle, most Native Americans surrendered and the Black Hills were taken by the US government without compensation to the Lakota.

Sitting Bull was later killed by Indian agency police on the Standing Rock Indian Reservation during an attempt to arrest him at a time when authorities feared that he would join the Ghost Dance movement. He was 58 or 59 at his death.

Crazy Horse was killed by a bayonet-wielding military guard after surrendering to U.S. troops at Camp Robinson in northwestern Nebraska. He was 37 when killed.

A trail of broken treaties and US government promises, Christianity meeting Spiritualism, tribal life and nomadic life versus settlement life, differing social structure, and visions of authority all led to the tragedy of Native American/settler clashes. It might have served as a cautionary tale for other disastrous clashes of culture in far-flung locations but as George Santayana wrote, “Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”

Humankind has shown repeatedly that we do not learn from history.

Today there are approximately 326 Native American land areas in the U.S. administered as federal Indian reservations (i.e. reservations, pueblos, rancherias, missions, villages, communities, and others). The largest is the 16 million-acre Navajo Nation Reservation located in Arizona, New Mexico, and Utah. While there are an estimated 9.7 million Native Americans, only about a quarter live on reservations or other trust lands. The others are scattered to the winds.

On to new adventures in Cody, Wyoming.

Dharamsala – Little Israel

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Ever since I can remember there’s been a rite of passage of sorts for Israeli young people when they finish their army service. There’s even a name for it – the trip after the army. (in Hebrew it sounds a bit better). Two of our five kids took their respective turns with this rite of passage. Each spent a year traveling the world. Australia, New Zealand, Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam, New York City.

But for the past decade, the destinations of choice have been South America and India.

India often includes Nepal and SE Asia but the main component is India, and the main components in India are Dharamsala as the gateway to the North and on into the Himalayas – Manali, Leh, and Ladakh.

There’s a window of opportunity to be in Northern India. Many of the roads, not the safest mountain roads even in the best of weather, are closed for much of the year due to snow and ice. We’d planned on making it up there on our second trip but Covid had other plans for us. On our current trip, we were finally in the right place at the right time.

At the risk of sounding like a yoga heretic, I wasn’t at all excited about the idea of going to Dharamsala. Many of my students have spent time there. After Rishikesh it’s THE place to go. In my mind, though, it was a mountainous town with steep climbs every time you go out of your lodging, and hundreds of yoga wannabees. It’s also known for its varied workshops but I wasn’t really in a workshop state of mind.

At first, we planned 10 days there but as the time to make final arrangements got closer the less I wanted to dedicate such a big hunk of time – if any – to it.

Dharamsala is divided into four sections; the city of Dharamsala, the lowest point, McLeod is next, home to The Dalai Lama and the Tibetan refugees, then Bagsu, and finally Dharmkot.

The Dalai Lama and I had a falling out many years ago, though he’s not aware of it. I was disappointed in his statements about the Arab/Israeli problem which reflected an appalling lack of knowledge of the history of the area. He’s since carefully avoided speaking about the issue so I suspect that he recognized his oversimplification of a complicated situation. Nevertheless, I wasn’t interested in trying to schedule an audience with him.

I was, however, interested in learning more about the motivation behind the arrival of thousands of young Israelis in Dharmkot and Bagsu every year. So we decided to spend five days of investigation in Bagsu.

True to form but still a shock to our systems, the language heard most on the streets and in the shops of Bagsu and Dharmkot is Hebrew. The shopkeepers, restaurant servers, and hotel staff speak passable Hebrew. Many signs are in Hebrew. There are Israeli foods on the menus. There are two Chabad Houses, one in Bagsu and one in Dharmkot. Chabad provides a home away from home for traveling Jews, with kosher food, religious services, and a meeting place to schmooze with similar people, secular and religious.

When our youngest daughter was on her “trip after the army” she said she learned very quickly to keep her distance from other Israelis. It wasn’t a snobby thing or a dislike of her compatriots. She was interested in getting a feeling for the culture and people of the countries she was visiting. She said that Israeli young people tend to travel in groups of 12-14, speaking Hebrew enthusiastically (read: loudly), making it difficult to go places with narrow passages or restricted access and a challenge to get close to and speak to natives. She wanted to do volunteer work with families in need in Laos and in an institution for children damaged by landmines in Cambodia – acitivities not well suited for large groups.

As we traveled through India, even though we tend not to travel the “hummus trail” – the places most frequented by Israelis – whenever we saw Israelis they did, in fact, tend to be in groups and happily so.

But it wasn’t until we got to Dharamsala that we gained an understanding of the phenomenon.

As it turns out, people travel to India for several different reasons.

We, like our daughter, are interested in the many varied cultures and societies, the family structures, the generational trends, the various religions and religious practices, political positions, and how people get through the day, the month, physically, and financially. That dictates how we travel (on trains and other public transport rather than hiring a car and driver), where we stay (not in 5-star hotels too expensive for most Indians), and the destinations we choose. It means that my partner has been studying Hindi seriously and can carry on a bit of a conversation with Hindi-speaking Indians. (I rely on my excellent app) It means that over the years we’ve made friends in India with whom we now visit whenever we’re in the country.

There are people who go to India for spirituality. It’s in the very air people breathe there. For the hundreds of thousands of people who found and developed their inner spirituality in Buddhism or in India in general at one time in their lives, a few weeks in India revitalize and reinforce that equanimity and balance in their lives.

There are people who go to India for a variation of spirituality – inner peace, inner quiet, what’s called shanti in Hindi – an absence of the stress and tension of Western life. Although Indians drive like maniacs, hooting their horns for no apparent reason as well as when they’re passing someone with only 4 centimeters to spare, in other areas of their lives they project basic quiet happiness, peaceful acceptance, and interest without being intrusive. Coming as I do from a society where people not only drive like maniacs but exude an energy that vibrates like lightning, always running after the next thing, the better thing, rarely satisfied with what is, once I decompress during the first couple of days in India I can feel my emotional borders opening up, my natural curiosity blossoming, my breath deepening, my muscles relaxing. I sleep better. I feel lighter. My mind opens to all sorts of possibilities.

This time I learned to play the Indian flute, sketch, draw traditional Kolam chalk drawings and do hand and ear reflexology.

There are those who go to India for the incredible natural beauty found there. From the beaches of Goa to the heights of The Himalayas. There are one day easy hikes and two week treks with stopping points set up for spreading out a sleeping back along the way. There are awesome waterfalls hidden away, the sight of which is earned by days of climbing, lakes, rushing rivers, forests, all accessible to the strong of body and heart. There are tigers, leopards, bears, and the rare, verging on extinct, white rhinoceros of Kazaranga.

And then there are Israeli young people.

I’m sure there are Israeli young people whose motivation is found in one or more of the categories above but my impression after sitting and asking them and listening to their answers is that they’re in a category all their own.

They’ve just finished two years or more in a highly structured environment, the military, where they have little or no control over how they spend their time, how they dress, how they speak, when they sleep or eat. Not only two years with no control over their lives but, for many of them, a life interspersed with hours or days of danger and tension. Israel has one of the toughest military services in the world. Our country is always in a state of existence/non-existence and we rely heavily on these young men and women who spend at least two years training and guarding and protecting us every day. Without them our country would’ve ceased to exist long ago. It’s a heavy responsiblity to place on their young shoulders, but a necessary one.

Israelis at heart are a lively, joyful, energetic people. They don’t like discipline – in their families, in school, on the roads. They lack the spit and polish of the US Marine, the starched, ironed appearance of the British, the punctuality of the Germans. And yet they step up and serve for two years, suppressing (more or less) their tendency to scoff at authority.

And once it’s over – they’ve survived – they go to India.

India is so cheap, they can travel, spending the night in groups of 3 and 4 to a room, for a full year. No time restrictions. No dress restrictions. No family obligtions. They can wake up in the morning (maybe at noon or later) and decide to grab a sleeper bus to a place they’ve heard of from a fellow traveler…or not. And they can do all this in their native tongue with other young people just like themselves; who know what they’ve been through and where they come from. If the prices, accessible trasportantion, and natural beauty were available in a different country they might choose that country. It’s not India per se. Not the culture or the spirituality or the people of India.

They’re young people who have earned this amazing possibility to return to their exuberant selves.

Ultimately Dharamsala isn’t a destination I would return to. But I’m happy it’s there as a gateway to the North for these Israeli young people. And I loved getting to know some of them during our time there. We hear a lot about the Israeli “kids” who come to Northern India and sit around smoking dope. I’m sure those people are there, too, but the young Israelis we saw were wholesome in the way so many Israelis have managed to remain in this 21st century. Joyful. Caring. Patriots on a time out.

There’s plenty of time in life for school, work, building a family, all that serious stuff. And, yes, there’s a danger in getting carried away and not knowing when enough is enough, but the young people we talked to had plans for all that stuff. Later.

We worried when our girls took off for their “trip after the army” and now, two decades later, one is a partner in an accounting firm and one is a high school counselor. And we’re so happy for them that they had that time out of time.

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.