Indelible Images of India

It's been an amazing, interesting, colorful, odiferous, educational, inquisitive, and acquisitive trip to India. And we have one last purchase that absolutely, positively must be made. Gigi has been excited to get henna tattoos since we arrived, and I promised her we could do this on our last day in Delhi. It should be done just before heading back to Paris, ideally, in order to maximize its impact on classmates. At the local market, there is a row of henna artists who do this for 50 rupees per child's arm (just $1), or 100 rupees for the adults. Traditionally it is meant for brides, but we're not the only ones doing it just for fun. And no, it's not really indelible. But in theory, it should last for a couple weeks. Ours turn out lighter than we expect (what you're seeing below is the design before the mud dries and gets brushed off), so we'll probably only get a week or so out of them.

 

Bridal henna:

 

Tourist henna:

 

 

Now that we are at the end of our two-week vacation, I can answer the question posed in the intro to this blog. Yes, it does indeed make sense to travel with small children -- and my parents -- to India, even though they don't like spicy food. At least, it makes sense with the way we do this trip (I think trying to replicate with them the sort of backpacker adventure I had in my twenties would be completely distastrous, however...). We are able to order nearly everything "no spice," eat in clean restaurants and -- heaven be praised -- avoid Delhi Belly, buy scads of colorful and affordable souvenirs, and generally have an unforgettable trip with aunt, uncle, and grandparents. I can't even imagine having done something like this with my own grandparents and am so thrilled that my children will always have this memory.

 

 

 

Besides what is burned in our brains, the other indelible images I am referring to are these -- some of my favorite photos that didn't find a home elsewhere on the blog:

  
 

My parents, covering their heads in a temple. My father appears to be aiming for the Russian babushka look:

 

The incredibly beautiful saris of India. Many of the women look more elegant and dressed-up when shopping at the outdoor market than I did at my own wedding. No exaggeration.



The local butcher. Everything about this picture just kills me. It explains why we only eat at "fancy" places, in a nutshell:

Honest-to-goodness snake charmers. Yes, they are real snakes.

 

 

All that's left is to pack up, get to the airport....and discover that while we have been here, American Airlines has completely shut all operations in India and left my parents stranded without any valid ticket or reservations to get home. As we wonder if my parents will ever escape, the girls and I get on our plane to Paris. And with this, we say goodbye to India.

Bahrain, Mainly on the Plane

Given that we are only in Bahrain for a three hour layover, I never expected to write about it. But, we are three Californians stopping in the Middle East while traveling from Paris on their way to India, and so, naturally, we find ourselves eating chicken fajita quesadillas and chicken poppers & fries at a branch of Chili's. And so, I must write.

Seeing women wander around the airport so covered, many of them in full burkha, incites my inner angry feminist (yes, the one who wears comfy shoes while traveling in Croatia and other far-flung lands). I try to take a couple photos but get unusually self-conscious about it. There's only so much that I can pretend I am taking photos of the Chili's railing.

  

The front page headline on the Gulf Daily News (the voice of Bahrain) screams "STOP THE MEDIA SMEARS," saying that "travel agencies as well as traders are also bearing the brunt of the negative publicity and the continuing street violence targeting the police and public..." Immediately below this is a story, by the Gulf Daily News, titled "Thugs attack police after funeral."

At one point, we are watching a video screen, and I think, "Boy, even here in Bahrain, they perpetuate the sitcom stereotype of a bunch of Arab men in black full-length robes, white turbans, and shiny black Ray Bans." Then I realize it is not a sitcom but rather a shot of a real-life horse-race.

We are sitting at a Starbuck's (yes) playing card games with almost 50 minutes before our flight is scheduled to leave when G hears "final boarding call for gate 32." I'm wondering if the clock is off and how we could possibly be having what Anthony and I call a "Cinnabun moment" (one time we were lounging at a Cinnabun in the Detroit airport and missed our flight to Mexico because we had set our watches to the wrong time zone...). We run through the airport and make it to the flight, but just barely, since they have decided to leave half an hour early.

And that, folks, is the three-hour layover version of Bahrain.