Joy to the World

After two months running around the vast Indian continent, hating it, loving it, getting fat and losing my hair, I had to return to Los Angeles to finally find my guru. He arrived on Christmas eve in the guise of a 30 inch tall, 20 pound, eight-toothed, happy, drooling, dimpled one-year-old who waddled and toppled around my apartment like a drunken sailor babbling in languages none of us understood but somehow managed to obey.

I followed him everywhere he went, placing myself between his grasping little fingers and electric wall outlets, shielding his head from dangerous corners, and crawling around on my hands and knees behind him like an acolyte from the moment he woke up in the morning until he fell asleep at night. I cooked for him, picked up after him, wiped up his messes, protected him from all harm, hugged and kissed him, and worshipped him like a god.

He is my grandson, Nico, who came with his excellent parents from San Francisco to visit for a few days.

My apartment, in no way baby proof, is full of pitfalls for a toddler who needs to grab, bang, taste and explore everything he sees. It was a humbling experience. I ran behind Nico while he merrily tore my house apart, pulled open kitchen drawers and cabinets, turned knobs, banged pot covers, wooden spoons, and plastic containers on the floor.

I tried to protect him and my possessions from total destruction. Oh the things I noticed through his eyes: steep steps and sharp wrought iron railing, spaghetti-mess of wires from my computer, sharp-edged corners of furniture, breakable knick-knacks, houseplants, lamps, books, telephone wires, things—everything his to enjoy and mine to protect.

Meanwhile, I invited a gang over to present my little half-Chinese, half Jewish sparkling-eyed giggling gourmet wonder-baby who gobbled up strawberries, asparagus, tangerines, apples, pretzels, carrots, potatoes, spinach, asparagus, cheddar cheese, yogurt, noodles, turkey and ham into a seeming bottomless pit.

Nothing makes a grandmother happier than that wide open toothy little mouth ready for another spoonful.

Of course I had to feed my other guests too. My son and his wife offered to cook the main course, a pasta dish created by Sarra, my good daughter-in-law. Before they arrived I had already prepared the vegetable and salad and set the table, so my part was done. What a pleasure to let others take over the kitchen while I played goo-goo-ga-ga with my delicious little grandson and introduced him to the guests.

Before long the sweet angel fell asleep in a nest we made of a feather duvet surrounded by cushions in a corner of the room while we ate dinner. After dinner we stood around ogling and adoring this beautiful sleeping wonder child, direct descendant of Moses and Confucius, and I couldn’t help but think about that other little Jewish child asleep in the manger way back then.

The menu: linguini pasta with oyster mushrooms and cream, radicchio flavored with lemon and red wine vinegar—adapted from a recipe from Mario Batali’s The Babbo Cookbook—and green salad. My friend Marcelina provided dessert which consisted of tangerines, two different varieties of dates, almonds and pistachio nuts, and another guest brought exquisite dark designer chocolate for anyone who could eat another bite.

I played Bollywood movie soundtracks streaming from my computer, we drank good red and white wines, the food was delicious, everyone came back for seconds, and the sweet baby slept peacefully throughout dinner.

Nico’s mom's Pasta
Serves 10

2 pounds de Cecco linguini
¼ cup olive oil
1 ½ pounds oyster mushrooms
2 large brown onions
1 pint of heavy cream
Salt and pepper
Flat-leaf Italian parsely

Chop onions and fry in olive oil in a large pan until soft and translucent. Cut mushrooms into large pieces and add to onions; stir over medium heat until wilted. Add cream, salt and pepper. Let sauce simmer about 15 minutes until thickened.

Follow package directions for pasta. Drain cooked pasta, place in individual bowls, ladle sauce over it, garnish with parsley, and pass around the table.

MARIO BATALI’S RADICCHIO
Serves 10

4 heads of radicchio
Rinds of 2 lemons sliced fine
1 large red onion chopped fine
¼ cup good olive oil
¼ cup red wine vinegar
Salt and pepper

Wash, core and quarter radicchio heads. In a large deep frying pan heat olive oil very hot, throw in chopped onions and lemon rind; stir until soft then throw in radicchio. Toss and turn radicchio until wilted, adding a few drops of water if necessary, pour red wine vinegar over it, sprinkle with salt and pepper, blend well. Pile on a warm plate and pass around the table.

Happy New Year!

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Thoughts on Travel

People often ask which country I like best, do I prefer India over France, Ireland over Switzerland, Indonesia over Thailand. My answer: I have no favorite place; I try to enjoy wherever I am; each place is special in its own way, and so unique it can't be compared.

Having said that, I was struck by the eerie silence on Santa Monica Boulevard this afternoon during my first West Hollywood jaunt since returning home; the only noise was the hum of tires rolling swiftly over concrete. I couldn't help thinking about my last walk along the sea in Goa, barefoot on the sand, the waves rolling in, the breeze cooling my skin. Or my daily walks in Provence, in the lush green countryside, the dirt path through the fields, around the vineyards, beside the woods. Or the crowded streets in Indian cities where the air is dense and every vehicle is honking its horn full blast.

My last days in Goa brought a few surprises: Mrs. Bindha actually asked me to pay for the terrible bleach job that made my hair fall out, a Kashmiri shop-keeper followed me into the sea and, while I swam, tried to convince me to visit his shop, a priest from a Catholic mission in Goa asked me if I could introduce him to Bill Gates, and the Swedish sea captain got sick to his stomach so there was no farewell kiss.

I learned some hard lessons on this journey; foremost, about the importance of comfort on my travels: it seems the older I get the more important hotels become. A hotel is a home and can make one's journey a pleasure or a misery. That lesson came home in Delhi and Rajasthan where I thought I'd paid for up-scale hotels, but thanks to a shrewd travel agent, I stayed in a few nasty holes-in-the-wall. I would have been much happier in luxury hotels but my budget didn't allow for real luxury which has become prohibitively expensive in India.

My trip home was unbearably long, nearly 40 hours, but during the 12 hour stopover in Bombay I checked my luggage and hopped over to the Leela, a five-star hotel near the airport (20 rupee rickshaw drive), where I used the luxurious ladies room, drank tea from a bone china cup, and wandered around the shops in the marble arcade, with fountains and crystal chandeliers. I bought a fabulous Fendi bag (perfect copy) and a buttery soft, olive green leather jacket. This made up for some of the discomfort I would endure over the next 24 hours.

On the final leg of my journey, wretched and exhausted, I kept wondering how the travel part could be made easier, wished I could simply beam myself up and away to wherever I wanted to go, or fly first class, or take a slow boat. The food in coach on Air France is delicious―I'll give them that―but the seats are small and cramped, and it's crowded.

Waiting on long, endless lines at airports is dehumanizing. When I was pulled off the boarding line for an additional security check in Paris I asked the officer, who was carefully examining every item in my carry-on, if I really looked dangerous. "No," he said, "it's random." This is such an unnecessary hassle and a waste of everyone's time.

And while I'm kvetching, let me also express my hatred for luggage, a necessary evil and daunting burden for the solo traveler. Everything would have been much easier had I not been carrying 30 kilos around with me. Ideally, all I need is my toothbrush and a credit card with lots of money to buy whatever else I need along the way.

First-class air fare, five-star hotels… I can't afford the comfort I desire when I travel. But I will never learn this lesson because if given the choice of traveling on a budget or staying home I will always choose to travel. Can't help it; adventure is in my blood.

Listening to myself complain about problems in paradise, I realize that's what real travel is all about. I'm not a tourist I'm a traveler; my fabulous adventures and the wonderful people I meet make it all worth while―and I'm grateful for the opportunity.

After four extraordinary months in France and India West Hollywood is looking pretty good to me; I've turned up the thermostat in my comfortable, spacious apartment, thrown a thick feather duvet on my lovely clean bed, unpacked my soft winter woolies, and settled in for the season. It's good to be home.

Intrepid Dreams

Benaulim Beach, Goa

This morning, after a refreshing swim in the sea and a long walk on the beach, I returned to my hotel and asked to have the hot water turned on in my room for a shower. Pratap, the manager, and a few of the waiters were distracted. "What's going on?" I asked. "The third test match between India and Pakistan," I was told. (I think it's cricket.) A radio was turned on; everyone was very excited. Surej, the headwaiter, explained that Gangooley is not out for 200 runs. "Oh," I said, not having a clue of what he was talking about. "How nice."

While there is a perfectly good shower-head protruding from the wall in my spacious tiled bathroom I prefer to take an Indian shower: From a spigot lower down on the wall I fill a large bucket with warm water, now diverted to the pipes to my room, which I ladle up with a small plastic pitcher and pour over my body, bending, ladling, splashing myself again and again with total abandon.

I shampoo my hair, rinse and condition it, and continue the ritual of scooping up and splashing fresh warm water over myself. The used water runs down into a drain in the floor. In my opinion this way of washing is so much more sensual and satisfying than standing still under a shower―and, for those who care about conservation, wastes no unnecessary water.

After my shower I discovered the electricity had been cut, a regular occurrence in India, arbitrary, without warning, for no known reasons. The power was out for about an hour, but I didn't mind; I'm used to it; I knew it would come back eventually. While I dressed I thought about what I want for lunch.

Oh, the choices are so rich and varied. My favorite dish lately is seafood biryani, which is one of the chefs many masterpieces, but I'm also tempted by fried calamari and chips, or chicken tandoori with boiled vegetables and salad, but fish tikka is also an option, or vegetable masala with buttered garlic naan... My only problem is deciding what to eat.

Only a couple of days left before my return home and I'm soaking it all in, enjoying every blessed moment. Life is so sweet here; this place is paradise, un-crowded, unspoiled, clean air, clean sea, perfect weather, good people, excellent food; there is time to think, read, go for a walk, stare at the sea, talk to strangers, do nothing at all.

The tourists I meet here are the sort that go out of their way to find out-of-the way places; I've met people who will be my friends forever, travelers like me, dreamers, intrepid wanderers: a young couple from Toronto traveling around the world, a couple from Brisbane, a Swiss family, Finns, Italians, English―special people with fascinating stories who have stumbled across this place and, like me, return again and again.

A lady from South Africa told me she has brought fifty pairs of underpants with her in order not to have to wash them; she throws out a pair a day. All I could think of were the young Indian room-boys who empty her trash bin each day; imagining them fondling her knickers, smelling, touching, admiring, trying them on…

Her boyfriend, an Australian, is a car collector who keeps his vintage Morgans in his bedroom. Some people come here to do nothing more than drink the cheap booze of Goa, a German man sits on a beach chair all day doing Soduku puzzles, a Danish fellow is writing a book, an English couple have left everything behind and become nomads, a Scottish bartender is here to get healthy, an Irish lady has run away from her husband, a middle-aged French lady eyes young Indian men on the beach…

I met a handsome Swedish sea captain, with tattoos of ships on his arms, who invited me out to dinner the other night. After our delicious meal we strolled down the beach to a shack where we had drinks under the stars and listened to live music performed by a group of young Goans who played like the Beatles. The captain has invited me to visit him in Stockholm, which I think I will do. I wonder if he'll kiss me before I leave.

I've read a dozen books on this journey, including two extraordinary ones by Nobel Prize winner, Orhan Pamuk, who writes brilliantly about Turkey, and now I'm dreaming about Istanbul. I want to exchange my apartment in West Hollywood for one in Istanbul for at least a couple of months, visit the country, learn Turkish, meet people, take my time, write something worthwhile... Maybe after I visit the Captain in Stockholm I'll fly down to Turkey… then a stopover in Brisbane on my way back to Goa…

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p.s. billy says the tabla player didn't smile because sitting in the lotus position his legs had fallen asleep.

some have asked how i deal with my lack of hair? i use kohl and pencil black lines around my eyes and pretend i want my hair like that.

home tomorrow!

Current Events

Benaulim Beach, Goa

In reaction to the groans of envy provoked by my last story, “Crowning Glory,” the title has come back to bite me in the ass. Having been invited to a posh Hindu engagement party I decided to get my hair bleached for the occasion. The roots had grown in a couple of centimeters, and I wanted them restored to their (un-natural) platinum blonde color.

Mrs. Bindha, owner of Sowndarya beauty parlor in the village, told me she knew what to do. She mixed the pale blue product expertly, painted it on my head, and asked me to sit still for an hour—exactly the same as my hairdresser, Liz, does up at the Standard in West Hollywood.

She kept checking the color, as Liz does, and when it looked right, she washed it out. Not only did the product wash down the drain but all my hair did too—all but the roots that had turned a hideous yellow and orange and stuck out around my head like I’d been shocked. All my curls are gone. I look like an army recruit with a military buzz cut—or a tabby cat that has been badly shaved.

Another detail sure to assuage any remaining envy: while everyone who comes to India eventually gets sick to their stomach and loses weight, I, my friends, have gained. Not only am I still carrying the two kilos I gained in France, I’ve put on another kilo in India.

So, I’ve gotten fat and lost my hair. Go ahead, gloat.

As the good book says: Vanity, vanity, all is vanity.

The engagement party, a swell affair with 500 guests, was given by a family of rich jewelers; ladies’ baubles were mind-boggling: real diamonds, rubies, emeralds encrusted in soft, pure gold, adorning ears, necks, hair and arms, as were the gorgeous saris of fine silk, richly embroidered, festooned with jewels and beads, a shimmering exotic palette of brilliant colors. Indian women’s clothes are the most beautiful in the world.

Bald, bloated, brazen, I lie on a white beach chair, with a blue cushion and a blue and white striped towel, book in hand, looking across the sand at the sea, listening to waves break softly at the shore. A wide-brimmed sun hat covers my poor, fried head. The barefoot waiter brings a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich which I’ve ordered for lunch; Lalbi, a beach hawker, saunters by with a basket of fruit on her head; she peels and slices up a juicy, sweet pineapple which I’ll enjoy for dessert.

At the next table a group of Russians are eating lunch; one lady is pouring ketchup over her salad, another has brought a loaf of white bread to eat with her plate of chips; the men are slurping down beer and vodka with their platters of grilled lobster. I wonder: how did the poor Russians in Russia get so rich?

Fishermen, who’ve been out all night in their wooden boats, are hauling in their nets with what looks like a great catch; their women wait on the beach with baskets to carry back silvery sardines and mackerel, enough for all to eat and plenty left over to sell at the market. They appear quite happy.

Last night I went to a classical Indian music concert, performed by noted artists from around India, at a Hindu temple on a hilltop in the middle of a grove of banyan-trees. The featured performer was a young solo tabala player, Satyajeet Talwalkar from Mumbai, who stunned a hall full of cognoscenti with his astonishing virtuosity; his fingers flying like hummingbird wings over his drums, his face placid yet glowing with the fire burning within; from time to time a smile broke out revealing his own pleasure.

Tempos shifted and the speed increased to an astonishing pitch to the point where our minds spun out of control, caught up in a swirling ocean of pure sound. It didn’t seem possible he could keep it up, yet he did and went even further. I closed my eyes and felt as though I’d been swept into a storm of notes by a creature that soared and swooped and battered the hell out of me, non-stop, for two hours.

I’ve never heard anything like it. Thinking about it now I can still feel the thrill of Satyajeet’s music pouring from his body and soul through the tips of his fingers and entering into my blood.

I know that Zakir Hussein is considered the greatest tabala player in the world but I can only say, watch out Zakir, Satyajeet is close on your tail.