Photopost: Pere Lachaise, summer 1990

Fresh out of college, practically no money, wandering around a beautiful cemetary in an amazing city with an older brother.

I can't recommend it enough.

Leftovers From Life in Japan

In the kitchen of Yoshida House, circa 1990. This clown still owes Sam and me money.

Yesterday was full of errands that derailed my usual sensible eating schedule, and my lunch was late, substantial, and topped off with an ice cream sandwich (I'm a little addicted to those at the moment). So around nine last night, I found myself in need of a snack that would be substantial enough to serve as dinner without being heavy or unhealthy. In a scene straight from my teenage years, I opened the fridge, stood there with one hand on the door handle and the other on my hip, and gazed at the shelves, waiting for a sign.


It didn't take long for it to dawn on me that we have both yogurt and bread, and I happily grabbed them and found a suitable bowl. As I tore the bread up into lima-bean-sized bits and glopped yogurt on top, my mind drifted back to where I learned this combination: Tokyo. In a gaijin house in a suburb called Oizumi Gakuen, to be precise.

My gaijin house closet. That's a tiny fridge at the bottom left -- an important accessory if you want to count on finding your food where you left it.

"Gaijin" means "foreigner"; a gaijin house is a rooming house for non-Japanese, a place where nobody looks askance at tall, loud, rude people, beacuse everyone is tall, loud and rude, and taking delight in educating each other about the ins and outs of surviving in a foreign land. Ours had perhaps six 8' x 10' rooms per floor, each with a sink, and one toilet per floor. The telephone, shower and kitchen were communal. It was not glamorous, but it was fun, friendly, and most importantly, cheap. When my brother and I first arrived, there was only one room available, so we shared for a while. He still complains about the noise I made when I flossed my teeth.

Sam (not his real name) and I found that room thanks to a connection we'd made during a flight from Ulan Bator to Beijing. Our black market Trans-Siberian ticket had ended up stranding us in the capital of Mongolia, and we consequently found ourselves on the weekly flight to Beijing. It was an open seating situation, and the man next to us, who had just been filming highland games in the countryside, happened to have lived at Yoshida House, or knew the manager, I forget which. When he heard we were going to Tokyo, he scrawled a name and phone number on a scrap of paper.

So back to the yogurt and bread. I learned this combination from an Israeli man a few years older than me, fresh out of military service and engaged in the time-honored tradition of selling junky Thai trinkets on the street. I don't know if the dish is typically Israeli, or just something this one guy did, but I saw him eating it all the time in the communal kitchen, tried it myself once, and liked it enough that I still eat it.

Spot the dog in the garden at Yoshida House, circa 1990.

Just now, on a whim, I searched for Yoshida House. Not only is it still up and running, but it has a lovely website. It looks a lot cleaner than I remember it, and the people look classier, too. I'm glad it's still there; maybe I'll go back for a visit someday.

Photopost: Trans-Siberian Express

Roughly 20 years ago, my older brother Sam (not his real name) convinced me that going walkabout in Europe and Asia right after graduation would be just the thing to do. As usual, he was right.

These photos were taken by him during his journey west on the Trans-Siberian Express to meet me in Germany (he had just spent a year studying in Nanjing). I myself took that same train back east with him a few weeks later, and took these photos of his photos this morning.

Enjoy.

Photopost: Indian Watermelons

When we were in India last year, I was cameraless and borrowed my father-in-law's (Naina's) digital jobbie, both because I am a lifelong photo-snapper, and I like to play tourist. Whenever we returned to the house, Naina would take the memory stick and run it down to the corner photo shop to have my shots printed. The first time this happened, I was really confused about his hurried departure, then delighted when he turned up a short time later, paper bag of prints proudly in hand.

A few days into this routine, it came to light that he and the photo shop guy had been discarding some of my street shots, thinking they must surely be mistakes since they were so mundane. I explained that I wanted to be able to show my friends and family all aspects of Indian life, and that street life holds all kinds of clues to a culture.

And that's part of the story of the photo above. The other part is that I was walking with my husband Mowgli (not his real name) near the stadium when we came across this stack of watermelons and baskets. I recall being in a hurry, hungry to see as much as possible that day -- it was one of our last chunks of free time. I still regret not going inside that shop to take shots of tropical fruit stacked into pyramids, and I still remember being impressed by the neatness, volume and variety I could see from the street.

I'm still hungry to see more of India, and next time around, I'll take my own camera, and take more time.

India Diary, Part Two

If you're just joining us, today's post is a continuation of Thursday's post, which consisted of excerpts from the diary I kept when I went to India last year for a reception thrown for us by my in-laws. Again, this is verbatim except where noted by brackets.

On the endlessly fascinating street life:
"We saw a bunch of bullock water carts -- tanks of water on wheels being hauled by bullocks with brightly painted horns, some with decorative horn-covers:"

By the way, it turns out these water carts are supplemental -- the city provides water on specific days at specific times, and it's up to you to fill your tanks with as much as you need. If you can't get enough, or need more, you contact a supplemental water company, which then dispatches a bull-drawn tank.

On our one trip outside of the city:
"Went off to the waterfall -- about 40 KM away, north of the city. Passed farms w/grapes, bananas, sugar cane & rice paddies, in between villages with stall-stores at the edge of the road, schools, coconut vendors, groups of women, men & schoolkids. Lots of goats, stray dogs, cows (some on leads), and donkeys. Saw a donkey fight in the middle of the road -- awesomely funny."

My husband Mowgli (not his real name) told me later that donkeys eat newspaper, and something in the ink makes them crazy. I still wish I'd been quick enough with the camera to get a shot of the donkey fight. Most of the animals we saw, including horses, were wandering down the street. Cows tend to be tied up because they're very valuable; goats are allowed to wander because they'll eat as they go and it's cheaper to keep them that way; and the dogs are just semi-feral and everywhere, and not to be messed with.

On wandering around town and visiting a grocery store (at my request):
"Had a Coke at Domino's after taking pix of the delivery motorbikes outside and attracting the attention of the owner, who was amused by my tourist ways, but v. nice. [Mowgli] had suggested a juice bar, but I couldn't decide to save my life (Chickoo?!) and was nervous since mom's incident. And something familiar just sounded good.
Went to a grocery store -- Nilgiri's -- to check it out -- narrow aisles, and lots of choices just like in the U.S. Sort of like a Target in that they had housewares, dog stuff, toiletries, etc. [Mowgli] said later that produce was next door."

I'll leave you with sketches of some of the gifts we received at the reception. The Shiva was too heavy to bring back, but the Ganesh came with us and now resides in our living room.

India Diary, Part One

I blame the jetlag for my fascination with the lightswitches.

I recently rediscovered the diary I kept during our trip to India last year for a reception that my husband's parents threw to celebrate our marriage. My mother and older brother went with us, and we traveled together from Newark to Brussels to Chennai (Madras) to Coimbatore. On the longest leg of the flight (9 1/2 hours) we all slept, though I noted that when I woke up I was so groggy that my husband was worried (we had only been married for six months).

Here are a few excerpts, verbatim except where noted with brackets.

First impressions of Madras:

"On the way to the hotel I was in back, trying to see as much as possible. Lots of dust, roadside shops/bars serving taxi drivers. I noticed that if I breathed with my mouth open, I could feel a fine coating of silky grit. Lots of honking. People driving fast, auto-rickshaws, scooters, trucks. We passed a modern gas station, just like ours -- big, well-lit, neon, lots of pumps."


The entry/new bride welcoming proceedings at my in-law's house in Coimbatore, which were attended by several aunts and uncles. Just before this, we'd done the entry ceremony, wherein I'd had to be the first to enter the family courtyard and house, stepping with my right foot first. Mowgli was scolded for trying to enter before me, but to be fair, we'd just traveled for over 30 hours.

" ...I lit the lamp in the family shrine. I had to strike the match with my right hand -- kind of tricky for a southpaw. All of this took maybe five minutes, then we ate, served by the ladies. I held a silver tray with dishes of kumkum and turmeric. [Amma (mother in-law)] put the gift on it, they daubed themsleves and me, then I offered the gift and they took it."



On my mom crossing the street:

"Mom's freaked out about crossing the street. There are no crosswalks and nobody stops, but nobody gets hit either. Everyone also honks. Mom stops when she should keep going."



On beggars:

"Saw a few beggars -- little kids, and an old dwarf man. [Mowgli] gave the man some money but shooed the kids away. I have to ask him why he gave to one and not the other." Note: He told me later the kids are working for a boss, so he didn't give because the money wouldn't help them.



On waiting for our driver* to pick my mom and me up at a hotel:

"Saw a few Westerners, but mostly Indians lounging, standing in groups, going here or there. Had a false alarm thinking Babu [his real name] had come -- the doorman laughed at us when we shrugged at our own eagerness. He had a great moustache:"

*My in-laws hired a driver to take us wherever we wanted, pretty much whenever we wanted, for the duration of our stay. At first it felt uncomfortably luxurious, but after about five minutes of being driven calmly through the maelstrom that is Indian traffic, it seemed more like a necessity. He also kept an eye out for unsavory types and answered all of my silly, curious traveler questions with grace.

Travelogue: An American in Istanbul

Recently a friend spent 11 days in Turkey, mostly in Istanbul. I wrote the other day about the amazing Turkish delight she brought back, but thought it would be fun to do a post about the trip. She graciously agreed to answer my questions and share a few photos. Enjoy!

Why do you travel internationally?

I like travelling period, always have. There are many places in the states that I really want to visit, and some places internationally that I don’t. I think the reason I like traveling overseas is twofold. First, I am a big history buff and I love my American history, but we are still a relatively new country and it is fascinating to visit places that have been around for a thousand years or more. Secondly, I enjoy learning about other cultures and finding all the quirks and nuances of other people. But most of all I think I enjoy the realization that everyone is basically the same, no matter what country you call home.

Why Turkey?

I read several books that either mentioned Istanbul or were placed in Istanbul and the city seemed fascinating. The book that was the main inspiration is called The Historian and takes place all over Eastern Europe, but Istanbul really seemed to stand out. I also spoke with several people who had been there and I kept hearing things like “it’s the best place I've ever been” and “one of my favorite cities.”

What does Turkey smell like? (I ask because compared to the U.S., other countries have distinct smells -- for me, Paris smells like freshly baked baguette; China smells like soot and pee and cooking oil. India's smell is indescribable -- too many smells competing for space, from animals and exhaust fumes to jasmine and cardamom.)

Turkey’s smell is more like India’s, lots of smells competing for space. Instead of animals though, it’s people. Some people had some pretty bad funk going on, but then other smells were wonderful like the spice bazaar and the coffee shops and patisseries.


Did you have any trouble with the language barrier?

95% of the people speak at least a little English, so it really wasn’t much of an issue, but Turkish was the first Slavic language I’ve tried to learn (other than a couple curse words and the national anthem in Croatian), so it was a little hard to get some of the pronunciations correct, but I was getting pretty good at it after 11 days.


How did it compare to the other countries you’ve visited?

I found it to be very similar to other European cities that I have been to, except for the Muslim influence and the size of the city. The city really represents east meets west since half of the city is in Europe and the other half in Asia. The food and the carefree attitude of the people reminded me most of Barcelona, but the terrain reminded me of San Francisco, believe it or not. Lots of hills and houses crammed together.

The people in Turkey were some of the friendliest people I have ever met, and the traffic was the worst I have ever seen. I’ve never been to New York, so I can’t compare the traffic and the crowds, but Istanbul has 16 million people and at times the closeness got to me. The Turkish don’t have the same personal space requirements that we do here in the states.


Where did you go, exactly?

We were in Istanbul almost the entire time. We intended on taking a two day trip to Cappadocia (these cool mountains referred to as the “fairy chimneys”), where you can take a hot air balloon ride and stay in a cave hotel, but we got distracted once we arrived in Istanbul and when we finally got around to talking to a travel agent, all their guides were booked. We did take a day trip by ferry to the Princes’ Islands. That was one of my favorite days. We went to the largest island; no cars are allowed, and we took a horse carriage up to a park at the foot of the tallest peak. Then we climbed the peak (and it was certainly a climb) to reach an old monastery at the top where we had a great lunch and amazing views of the other islands and the Marmara Sea.


Did you visit any mosques?

We visited 3 mosques (one active and two former mosques that are now museums) and one Orthodox church. The most interesting thing that I learned about mosques was that Aya Sofia, which was originally built by Justinian as a Christian church, was not designed after a mosque – and the Turks like the design so much that all mosques are designed after it.


Were there things that surprised you?

There were lots of things that surprised me, but two that jump out are:

Istanbul has to be one of the world’s largest melting pots. I have never met so many people from so many different countries all living in or visiting one city. The food options reflected this, as you could get any type of cuisine you wanted. We met an Italian-American from Philadelphia who said that Istanbul rather than New York is the true melting pot of the world, and he just might be right.

About 35% of the women we saw wore some type of head scarf. We saw very few women in the full covering, but what amazed me about them was how fashionable most of them were. Some of them were covered in long coats that were not as stylish, but still came in a wide variety of colors, and others just had the scarf on with funky clothes that covered all extremities, but were still very hip. I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised by that as Istanbul is a very fashion-conscious city, but I was.


Beyond the Turkish delight, was there a local food that bowled you over?

There were several local foods that bowled me over. The Turkish meatballs (kofte) were wonderful and they were always accompanied by this simple bean salad that we came to love. We also had kebabs that were the specialty of one of the local restaurants and contained sliced pistachios that were amazing. And a dessert that is hard to describe. The shape resembled a flan, flat and circular. The outside was made of crunchy bird’s nest material (probably phyllo dough cut up), the inside had a creamier consistency like a pecan pie without the nuts. Then it was covered with shredded pistachios and topped with fresh cream. Sounds weird but it was delicious.

Were there any interactions with locals that stick out in your mind?

We took a 2.5-hour ferry to the Princes’ islands, which are a popular place with everyone, so the ferry was really packed. There was a large group of older teenagers, maybe college-age kids who wanted to sit outside (the outside seats were a hot commodity), so they laid down towels and blankets and sat at our feet, laying on each other and sleeping. At first I was annoyed by it, but they were so sweet – not intrusive at all in spite of the fact that they were practically lying on top of our feet. It was fun to watch their interactions and have no idea what they were saying but still understand their joking and teasing each other.

Tiananmen

Today and tomorrow mark the 20th anniversary of the Tiananmen Square uprising, or massacre, or whatever you would like to call it.

There are New York Times op-eds and interesting interviews with today's students, to whom the date means little -- at least when they are talking to a reporter. NPR has a great piece on three student leaders who were deeply involved in the protests and how they've continued the long trek toward their goal of bringing lasting change to China.

Last night BBC World News had a riveting interview with Jeff Widener, who took an iconic photograph of a single protester blocking a line of tanks (you can see it in this slide show, at about 2:37). I was due to leave the house to meet a friend, and had considered leaving early to drop by the library on my way, but once I started watching I knew I had to stay for the whole piece, even if it meant I would be late.

They ran footage of the man waving his plastic shopping bags furiously at the tank in the front of the line, the tank advancing, stopping, advancing, stopping. I tried, and failed, to imagine the thought process of the driver, who must have known that his fellow soldiers had slaughtered hundreds of their own countrymen the night before. It's easier to imagine the thoughts of the man standing in front of the machines: I don't care if you kill me.

The photographer related how he'd gone into the Beijing Hotel, found a Western student, and whispered to him that he was an AP photographer to gain access to his room and balcony. He took a handful of frames, then realized a setting was wrong and worried he'd missed the shot. Undaunted, he moved to the next step: getting the film safely past the soldiers, who were by this time very good at identifying journalists.

The hotel guest put it in his underwear, got on a bicycle, and delivered it to the AP office.


Just over a year later, a few months after I finished college, I spent two weeks in Nanjing with my older brother, who had just completed a year of study there. We also spent a week in Beijing, riding bicycles where the tanks had been past places where people had died, eating boiled peanuts and sampling the local rotgut. It was sobering, weird, and moving, and the vast majority of the people were lovely.

Nanjing, Summer 1990

Riffing on International Food

Breakfast during a ski trip in Japan. Yes, that's a hot dog, but isn't it pretty?

This morning, as I was thinking of a topic to post about, I realized this is the last day I'll see a good friend before she goes to Paris for a week. So naturally, my thoughts turned to food; specifically, the glories of international foods eaten in their home environment. Because seriously, my friends, you have not had a croissant until you've had one in Paris. I know that sounds like food snobbery, and maybe it is, but I'm sorry, it's true.

I've had pierogi in Krakow, dosas in India, and yes, croissants in Paris. But the foods I keep coming back to and getting nostalgic for are Japanese.

Every convenience store in Tokyo, where I lived for a year and a half, had onigiri -- triangular wads of rice stuffed with salmon, or beans, or tuna. They were delicious, simple, filling and blessedly cheap. In summer, they had pre-packaged cold soba -- buckwheat noodles with a sweet, salty soy-based sauce, and a tiny compartment of paper-thin green onions.

Naturally, there is a class of bar food. Yakitori -- literally, grilled chicken, a/k/a chicken on a stick -- was a favorite, as was its cousin, octopus on a stick. Seriously, folks, when you're 22 and you've had a few giant beers after teaching English for nine hours and you've missed the last train, nothing hits the spot quite like grilled octopus smothered in teriyaki sauce.

Finally, the ubiquious sushi; it's in convenience stores, in "kaiten" joints where it goes by on conveyor belts and they tot up your bill based on the plates stacked in front of you,
and at proper sushi restaurants. Someone in the gaijin house where I lived had identified a half-off night at a sushi restaurant we could walk to, and I had some of the best raw fish of my life there. I can't recall what I had -- probably lots of tuna -- but I remember how much I loved eating what the locals were eating, where they were eating it. This was also my first exposure to banana leaves as plates, and using my hands to eat in public.

And now I'm so hungry for sushi that I'm plotting a new career as an international food writer.

On my Profile Photo

Yes, those are my hands. They're covered in mehendi, which is henna paste applied and allowed to dry. It's a decorative art that's thousands of years old and is practiced in many countries for different reasons. In India it's typically associated with special occasions having to do with transecndence and transformation. When I've asked about it, some people have told me it also has to do with warding off the evil eye.

Mine was done in India for the occasion of the reception that Mowgli's parents threw for us last year. A cousin's 13-year-old daughter did the honors; she had a book of patterns with her and let me pick out what I liked, then did the work freehand. She had premixed tubes with tiny tips; she did my hands and feet in the space of an hour.

On my wrists are gold bangles; some are mine, some are my mother-in-law's. I also wore a combination of necklaces, some hers, some mine. The mix appeals to me both in terms of the symbolism of the joining of families, and the trust implicit in letting someone else wear your special-occasion jewelry.

The last of the mehendi wore off three weeks after it was applied. It was still clearly visible when we came back to the States, and a lady in one of the airports asked me if we had just gotten married when she spotted it. I think I said no, it was just a reception, even though it was tempting to say yes. It certainly felt like a wedding to me.

Big Apple Masala

Mowgli and I were recently in New York, visiting family and friends and wandering around the city. We started with half a day at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where even the museum shop cashiers have accents, and overhearing a conversation in English was a rarity. Mowgli’s cousin, who had angelically picked us up from the airport the night before, was with us, as was my mom, who had angelically taken the train up from Baltimore the day after returning from a week in Los Angeles.

At the Empire State Building the next day, all the line attendants and salespeople asked us where we were from as we made our way past posters hawking a virtual helicopter IMAX tour of the city. I realize it’s a sales ploy, but we did have a fun chat with a guy from the Dominican Republic. I asked if he’d read “The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao” (he hadn’t) because I’d just finished it, and it was written by a Dominicano. I missed my book club meeting about it because of the trip, and was aching to discuss it, but alas, all I could do was recommend it.

Later that day, we met up with the cousin who accompanied us to the museum and took the commuter train home with him to Jersey City. After seeing his (very nice) home, we went over to another of Mowgli’s cousin’s to meet his new baby, who had had a big day. In the morning, his family (mom, dad, both sets of grandparents, and one great-grandmother) had performed his naming ceremony. His name was said (softly, I assume) into his ears, and then written in a dish of uncooked rice, and he was given something sweet for the first time. We admired the baby, enjoyed visiting with the family, and had some excellent food that had been prepared and brought in for the occasion.

We were fortunate to be staying with my cousin and her girlfriend in Murray Hill, which most locals refer to as Curry Hill, as there are at least three Indian restaurants per block, many of them Southern Indian. This cuisine is hard to come by where we live (most Indian restaurants in the U.S. serve Northern food), so the first decision of the day was where to walk for amazing Tamilian food – a far cry from committing to 20 minutes in the car for so-so idli.

One night after drinks with our best man and his wife, we ended up around the corner from the apartment at a greasy, brightly lit place full of cab drivers eating parathas with their hands. Mowgli ordered in Hindi, a language he doesn’t really speak, and was moderately successful – he was asked to repeat part of his order. But soon, we were tearing into parathas with our hands, too.

The next day, we journeyed back to Jersey to visit another cousin and her husband, parents and children. On the R train, an older Indian gentleman asked us for help finding the Rector Street stop, which is where we happened to be getting off. On the PATH train on the way back, an older lady from a South American country flashed three fingers at me twice. I thought she was signing “OK” so I signed “OK” back and gave her a thumbs-up for good measure. Mowgli was laughing the whole time – she wanted help finding the 33rd Street stop, so I went over to her with my map and helped her out.

Our last meal in the city was not Indian, but Ukranian (which is pretty much Polish). We took my cousin and her girlfriend out to thank them for their hospitality, and they returned the favor by taking us around the corner to an amazing Italian pastry shop where Frank Sinatra once dug into cannoli, and many of the customers were Asian. Welcome to New York.

Worth 7,000 Words

My French Cousin

She's not really French, but that's what I call her, because she went to Paris after college and just never came back.

Now she's on a yearlong world trek with her husband and twin sons, and naturally, they're blogging about it. They started with a semester in service at a cooperative school outside Bangalore, and they just finished the Antarctic portion of the journey. Next up: Macchu Picchu.

Don't be jealous, just be glad they're thoughtfully documenting the trip: http://web.me.com/mariaspada/http%3A__web.me.com_mariaspada/Welcome.html

Stranger in my Own Land

When I lived in Kushiro, on the island of Hokkaido in northern Japan, I was one of about 20 foreigners in a city of 200,000. As a blondish, blue-eyed person who was taller than half the population, it’s fair to say I stuck out. Once when I was taking a walk off the beaten path, a child ran screaming from me, which was only funny later. At the time, it felt like what it was: utter rejection based on nothing but my appearance.

A year ago, my family and I went to India for a wedding reception my in-laws gave me and my husband, Mowgli (not his real name). There, I experienced something similar, but more intense, as it was combined with open staring of the sort that’s somewhat evident in the photo above. It’s not malicious, it’s just unapologetically open.

The local Hindu temple is a place I adore; it is peaceful and beautiful and full of the vibes of people worshipping and meditating. The feeling I get there is akin to how I feel in an empty church. There are rituals I find comforting in both Hinduism and Catholicism, but it is the quietness inside me once the rituals are done that keeps me coming back to the temple.

We went to the temple last Sunday – they are open seven days a week, but we tend to go on Sundays because that’s when they serve the best masala dosas in town. When we walked into the basement to order food, I received an open stare, which I greeted with a smile, as usual. Because of space restrictions, we ended up sitting at the staring guy’s table, which was fine. I was occupied with Mowgli, and he was occupied with his companion. I didn’t talk with him, he didn’t talk with me.

The episode got me thinking, though, about the usefulness of feeling like a stranger in your own country. There is a visceral understanding that comes with being made to feel like an outsider, and it fosters empathy – always a good thing in my book.