Screw the Vespa, baby wants a HARLEY

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Today I lived a dream.  A dream of sun, wind, sand and speed.  Today I drove a motorcycle though the Thar desert.

When Marc and I pick up our bikes in the morning I’m really worried that I’m either going to knock it over (most likely while still on it) or run into something or cause an accident or something like that and that his response will promptly be, “Okay, nope.  Sorry, you’re obviously too girly to be handling this thing.  You better stay here.”  So I may have fictionalized some of the experience I have driving these things.  Actually, I may have fictionalized ALL of the experience I have on motorcycles.  But I think I can do it; hopefully that counts for something.

They aren’t particularly powerful, so they aren’t particularly loud, and somehow that’s reassuring.  Once it’s up off the kickstand it’s surprisingly light and I feel quite comfortable sitting on it and keeping it upright.  Clutching and switching between gears will be my big challenge, mainly because I have to learn on the fly.  Marc gives me a crash course and before I’m totally ready we’re rolling down the hill towards the petrol station.  It’s 8am and no one is around, which means I’m not terribly embarrassed when I stall out a couple times.  I am definitely EXTREMELY embarrassed when, after they fill up my tank, I clutch instead of brake at one point and run into an older guy on a motorcycle waiting to get his own tank filled.

Oh dear god.  Within ten minutes of leaving the bike shop I’ve hit someone.  The poor guy pitches left and hits the pavement, taking a station attendant with him.  His bike doesn’t totally fall over, but that’s only because it partially lands on the two men.  Oh my gooood.  This is NOT how I was hoping to start things.  I can hear Marc laughing over my shoulder and am really glad my helmet covers my cheeks because they’re cherry red.  Everyone is fine, but now I’m twice as nervous and half as confident about driving my motorcycle.  As I wheel my bike away from any other potential victims and towards the road, Marc says oh-so-encouragingly, “I can’t believe you hit the guy!”  He’s lucky he’s cute or he’d be in serious trouble with me.

But I get my bike started again and we get onto the large, thankfully well-paved, road that leads out of town.  I actually pick up the controls of the bike really quickly: my accelerator is extremely touchy and has a bad habit of making the tires squeal; to shift you clutch and tap your left toes down; to downshift clutch and tap your heel down; neutral tends to stick so I typically just hold the clutch in if I can; the hand break is incredibly weak, so I need to use the foot break as much as possible.  After an hour I’m basically an expert, accelerating and shifting like I want to race and downshifting to weave my way around traffic and camels. 

Whatever I said about how cool the scooter was in Udaipur, multiply it by about 50 and you’ll have an idea of how much fun this was.  Our top speed was about 80km/hr, but I just couldn’t get enough speed!  Throughout the day we passed hundreds of people and about half of them waved and laughed at us as we roared past.  The women and kids seemed especially impressed that there was a woman driving her own bike!  The desert spread out for miles all around us and for most of the day we had the road to ourselves.

Now, with that being said, up until about 10am it was also incredibly COLD.  I lost feeling in my fingers and ankles after about 5km and may or may not have been blinking back tears and snot as the freezing wind whipped at my face.  Did I mention that my helmet blew off almost immediately and spent the day tied to my backpack?  Safety first.

After only half an hour of riding, we came up to some Hindu and Muslim cenotaphs, much like the ones I saw in Udaipur.  They were separated into two groups based on religion, and Marc and I agreed we thought the Muslim ones had a bit more flare to them so that would have been our choice of where to be cremated.  Instead of white marble, though, these were made of a gorgeous honey-colored sandstone that looked red in the light of the rising sun.  One thing I love about Jaisalmer, in complete contrast to the other cities I’ve been to, is that is isn’t overly colorful.  Everything matches the hues of the desert with the exception of some decorative accents of paint or colored glass.  I hate to use such a cliché word as ‘organic’ to describe their building style, but nothing better comes to mind; it looks like they've been here as long as the desert has.

The cenotaphs were surrounded by a windfarm, and dozens of large turbines were spinning their blades silently and slowly.  Marc found them pretty distracting, but I appreciated that the people here were branching out into new industries.  The largest source of revenue here is tourism, and with the world-wide economy in recession there aren’t as many foreigners spending money on camel safaris and jeep rides as there used to be.  In fact, hotels are ruthless in finding customers for themselves: they board the train several stations ahead and walk along looking for tourists to pitch to and at the station there’s a line of nearly 30 men with signs advertising different accommodations.  It’s a free for all when they see someone walking out with light skin and a backpack.

Marc’s got the map and he leads the way another 10km or so to a small Hindu temple alongside the road.  It’s deserted, which we figure gives us tacit permission to go in and take a look about.  It’s fairly large for how few people live nearby.  White washed walls and marble floors keep the whole place very cool, despite being open to the rising sun.  The deities on the altars are wrapped in colored foils and designs are painted on the walls in bright colors.  A 6” brass gong hangs from one of the doorways and colored flags wave limply in the light breeze.  Even though we have no idea what any of these items are for or what the writing means, it’s nice to walk around on our own to just look and observe.

Soon, we’re on our way to another temple, this one Jain, but it turns out the road takes us through a small village.  At first, we plan to just cruise through it and keep our eyes peeled for a restaurant, but once we realize there isn’t anything here we pull over and ask someone for advice.  As Marc deals with directions, I deal with the kids.  Six little girls, ranging in age from 7 to 14 I’d say, start introducing themselves and shaking my hand.  The oldest oscillates between asking me questions and requesting things.  “What’s your good name?  You have rupees?  Which your country?  You give us school pen?  Why is your hair gone (at this point she runs her fingers through my short mop then flips a long braid over her shoulder)?  Do you have chocolate?  Is this your husband?  Photo?”  I try to answer them as best I can while swatting curious hands away from the motorcycle.  Marc must think this is a riot because when I look over he’s taking photos of it all.

Eventually, we’re waved off with big smiles as we cruise down the road.  We pass the edge of the village and leave behind the small houses made of mud, sticks, canvas, grass and baked cow shit roof tiles.  At one point we accidentally startle a camel that hobbles away in the most ridiculously pathetic manner because 3 of his legs are tied together with short ropes to prevent it from running away.  Remember the scene from the Empire Strikes back where Luke wraps a cable around the big 4-legged imperial fighter and makes it fall?  I know now where George Lucas got the idea for that from.  We pass a few other animals as we drive, but these are a little bit...juicier.  We whiz by a few carcasses, in various stages of decomp, and I immediately signal to Marc that I want to turn around and check them out.  The first has pretty much decayed to being a skeleton, but the second is still being picked at by animals and swarmed by insects.  The smell is horrendous and I can feel bile rising in my throat.  CSI, no matter how gorey they've gotten over the years, still isn't reality.  I last all of thirty seconds before I'm ready to hit the road again.

The next temple is larger and grander, so obviously we’re charged to go in it.  It probably wouldn’t have been worth it except for the fact that we arrived at about the same time as a bus full of Jain Indians traveling from temple to temple to worship.  It was fun to listen to them sing their prayers and ring a bell as they asked for a blessing.  One particularly chubby little baby had a great time ringing the two large bells a few times each and beamed a gigantic, toothless smile every time he heard one.  The adults also set out food offerings and paid the priest and priestess to approach the statue of the deity and present their requests to it.  The inside was as intricately carved and sculpted as the outside and the statues were either jet black or bright white polished stone.  They stood out strongly against the bland sandstone everything else was made of. 

By this point we’re starving and ready to go back to Jaisalmer if that’s what it’s going to take to get some food.  They’re selling cookies at the temple, though, and as we munch on our gluco-biscuits, Marc and I put with up the curious questions of the tour group.  There must have been some debate in Hindi because one woman finally turns to point to us and says to the group and then me, “She’s obviously not his sister.  Tell me, he is your husband?”  Here we go again.  After setting the record straight for them we decide to give in and start towards Jaisalmer for proper food.  There’s another large Jain temple on the way, though, so we pull over and debate whether we’ll go in.  We’re about to keep going when at the exact same time we see a sign that says “Restaurant”.  Five minutes later we’re sitting at a small card table with our new friend Govinder.

When Marc got off his bike, Govinder gave him a big bear hug and demanded a photo with his Australian brother.  I, of course, was only too happy to oblige them.  Govinder said he didn’t really have any food for sale beyond chips and cookies, but he was about to take his own breakfast and we could have some of his chipati, veg and dhal.  Considering it’s free food and going to save us almost an hour, we’re happy to overlook the somewhat questionable provenance of the food and join him in breaking bread.  As we eat, the conversation gets a little difficult at points with some awkward silences.  He starts with me:
G: “This your husband?  Boyfriend?”
Me: “No, just a friend.”
G: “Are you married?”
Me: “No.”
**Pause
G: “Do you have babies?”
Me: “No.
**Pause
G: “How old are you?”
Me: “26”
**Pause
He sits back and doesn’t talk for a while; you can tell he’s chewing this one over, trying to figure out why I’m still unmarried and unbabied at my age.  The girls in the villages around here would have a family by my age.  Thankfully, he turns on Marc next, asking if he’s married and how old he is.  I don’t think our relationship status meets his approval, but he seems willing to overlook it.  Fortunately, there’s a game set-up and when I try to distract him and ask how to play we’re quickly invited into a friendly wager for a bottle of beer.

Govinder and I make one team, Marc and Kamal make another.  The point is to flick a large, flat green disc into other small discs and knock them into one of the holes in the corner of the board.  Each person has a line they can shoot from and black earns you ten points, white twenty and red fifty.  It’s like pool for your fingers.  Marc and I are pretty terrible, but Govinder is obviously the club pro.  He leads us to an easy victory in the first game and Marc ponies up Rs100 to buy him a bottle of beer.  I politely decline one for myself, remembering my slight accident earlier this morning and thinking it’s the last thing I need right now.

The second game is when things get a little bit interesting and a little bit awkward.  Govinder starts by sinking piece after piece and Marc asks him if he knows what you get if you win all the discs when you play in Australia.  “The loser pulls his pants down and has to run around the table.”  Govinder loves it and plays with renewed fervor.  Even Kamal wants to see Marc lose and starts intentionally flubbing shots.  He seems to not understand that he would have to take the punishment, too.  When Marc’s team takes one, Govinder immediately wants to start over for another chance to “open Marc’s pants and make him run in the naked.”  Then he turns on me: “Lauren, don’t you also want to see Marc in the naked with his open pants?”  Oh dear god.  We’re invited to play one more game, but I don’t think either of us is ready to hear what’s at stake this time.

Unfortunately, a stray dog saw us eating earlier and has slouched over towards the table looking for scraps.  He’s still a few feet away, just sitting there, but something about it must be upsetting Govinder because the next thing I know he’s beating and kicking and cursing the dog and the poor thing starts to whine and squeal in pain.  I don’t know exactly what’s happening to him, though, because I can’t bring myself to look.  I’ve got my eyes shut tight and I can’t help but flinch every time I hear dog yelp.  This kind of treatment is completely normal in India; stray dogs are everywhere, including inside the grounds of monuments and tourist attractions, and the usual tactics for discouraging them from coming up to people are quite violent.  I could never do it, though, and I’ve found myself scratching and petting dozens of them, admittedly while cringing because I’m sure they’re covered in pests and diseases.

This is definitely the point where I need to leave.  I’m extremely uncomfortable and just want to keep riding.  Finally, we’re ready to make the long trip to Sam village and the famous sand dunes there.  We’ve got about 40km to go, so we can really open it up and build up some speed.  At one point, though, Marc points to a sign as he goes past it: “If you are married then divorce speed.”  I guess that means we’re free to rev it up.  About 5km from Sam, the dunes just come out of nowhere: large, golden rolling hills of sand, piles of which have been blown onto the road and cover half the pavement.  Now this is how I pictured the desert when I thought about coming out here. 

The camel-wallahs have set up shop alongside the dunes and their sales pitch is, well, unique.  When they see us coming they run out into the middle of the road, blocking our lane, and start waving their hands at us to stop.  Unfortunately, Marc and I aren’t expecting this and when we have to brake so suddenly my bike loses traction and my back tire spins out to the right side.  Okay, my heart is now beating a thousand times a minute and I am just waiting for the crash.  I’m sliding nearly sideways, but by no small miracle I get my left foot on the ground and somehow straighten the bike out again without hitting Marc or the asshole camel drivers that caused the scene in the first place.  It takes everything I’ve got to not punch one of these guys out as they start on their shpeal and pester us time and time again to ride their camels.  We shoot them down.  “Maybe later, then, my friends.”  You better hope not, because the next time I see you on the road I’m running your ass over.

Several other camel drivers and vendors try a similar tactic as we continue down the road and even some kids get in on the action.  However, now when we see them we just start honking our horns and trying to wave them off the road before we ride between or around them.  There’s no way we’re stopping for anything anymore.  It’s understandable that if they didn’t trick people into stopping like this they wouldn’t have any business because people would just keep passing through.  It’s still dangerous, though, and makes me glad we didn’t have any business to give them.

Ten minutes later, the rolling hills have morphed into flat scrubland.  Even though we’ve just arrived in Sam, the dunes seem to have disappeared as quickly as they arose.  Just a few kilometers from where they began, the land is flat again.  We pull a u-turn in the village and head back to the dunes, parking our bikes at one of the large resorts lining the road across the street.  These are large collections of tents and bungalows that are designed to give guests a taste of life in a spice route caravan hundreds of years ago.  Marc and I poke our heads into one of the bungalows and find just another place to come for a romantic Indian getaway should we ever return with a partner.  And for Rs2300 a night, I would need another person to come with just to be able to afford the ridiculous bill!  Apparently, I would also need another person to give me medical care, because at one point I brush my leg up against the exhaust pipe of my bike and immediately feel the skin on my shin scorch.  THIS HURTS.  I pour some bottled water on it, but in a few seconds it's already turning bright red in a 1" by 2" rectangle.  Ow ow ow ow.  There's nothing to do about it now, though; I'll just have to man up and see what it does tomorrow.

But our focus is across the street, the Sam dunes.  Much to the shock of the locals, Marc changes into shorts right then and there beside both me and the bikes.  It’s kind of funny how they keep looking at me like they’re waiting for me to start blushing or chastise him or something.  It’s okay, boys, it’s just not that big of a deal where we’re from.  The sand is really warm and soft under our feet and I keep sinking in past my ankles.  It just feels AWESOME, although I keep expecting to see the ocean or something over the next dune.  Marc’s a beach person, too, and he’s looking forward to surfing when he heads south.  It’s pretty stereotypical but nonetheless cool to see camels walking along the tops of the dunes in the distance and pretend that they stretch on forever.

When we’re back on the road, Marc and I take turns playing photographer with my camera as the other person rides by.  It’s a little embarrassing to admit, but come on, you know we’ve got to get some good action shots of us on the motorcycles and really the only way to do it is to be totally cheesy and just pose for them.  They turn out pretty well, though, and soon enough we’re back on the road to return to Jaisalmer.  I don’t think riding around on a motorcycle would ever get old and there’s not a doubt in my mind that I’m going to get one of my own at some point.  I have never been so jealous of Uncle Rich and Uncle Pat in my life.  Marc’s got grand plans of riding through the Middle East on one, and I won’t deny that he’s got my own brain coming up with similar plans for my own future vacations.

Oh, crap, now we’re coming into town.  Okay, I’m going to have to keep up with Marc, navigate Indian traffic through narrow, twisting roads and keep from stalling out my bike all at the same time.  I’m just a little nervous.  The roads don’t seem terribly busy, though, and somehow I’m able to keep the clutch and brake straight so I’m always in the right gear.  There are big gutters that cut through the roads with thin blocks over them that make little bridges for motorcycles, and through incredible effort I manage to hit them all and stay out of the ditches.  When we stop for lunch, every one of my muscles unclenches and my entire body relaxes.  After eating, though, there’s a new reason making me tense: I still need to print my train ticket, get my stuff and rush to the station.  I’ve got 45 minutes; make that 30 minutes after I go to the internet café and wait for a painfully slow internet connection to announce that I ended up first on the waitlist.  I have no ticket.  Oh dear god.

I rush to check my bike back in at the rental shop then say farewell to Marc.  I’m sorry to have to say such a quick goodbye; we’ve been traveling together about a week total and he’s been an awesome travel companion.  There’s a chance we might meet up in Delhi, but who knows, maybe I’ll make my way to Australia sometime.  A quick kiss on the cheek and I’m running down the hill to grab my bag and a ride with Marco to the station.  My only disappointment in Jaisalmer is that I didn’t have time to stop back at the haveli and buy the lotus-shaped incense holder I saw.  But if that’s my biggest complaint, that ain’t bad.

I try asking about my ticket, but after being told to talk to 3 different people, the station manager just says to get on the train.  Saying goodbye to Marco is rushed now, too, unfortunately, but the train won’t wait for me to say a proper farewell.  I really hope that someday I get to see him in London and use him as a tour guide or something like that.  Or maybe just use him for his Italian villa; I’m fine either way. :)

On the train I end up just grabbing a seat where I can find one in the 3 tier sleeper carriage and happen to join a large family that has several berths reserved.  When the conductor comes by about an hour later, I try to explain to him what the ticket taker and station manager told me, but he won’t let me finish and there’s obviously a problem.  He says he’ll return and we’ll talk about what to do because I’m not supposed to be here.  Oh man, I don’t want to get kicked off the train in the middle of nowhere.  I could make it to my flight on time, but I need to stay on this train to see the Taj!

As I wait for him to return I try to explain to the family I’m sitting with what happened and they immediately want to help me sort everything out.  One of them, Rashan, takes out his laptop and wireless card and calls up my ticket information.  He says the wait list isn’t a problem, I just need to give the conductor the PNR number and since I’m waitlist one he’s confident I’ll be given a berth.  In fact, he’s willing to give me one of theirs, since they have a couple of children that can sleep together.  And when the conductor returns I don’t have to say a word because all six of them start talking to him in Hindi and explaining to him what happened.  The next thing I know the conductor just nods at me and walks away.  I can stay!

Of all the wonderful Indian people I have met, and there have been many wonderful people, the best of them all have been on the trains.  They really do want to help foreigners, dare I say even take care of them, and I have been saved countless times by the generosity of complete strangers.  I don’t even know how to thank this family or what I can say to express my regret at having dragged them into this mess.  The best I can do is say thank you over and over again and try to take up as little space as possible.  That shouldn’t be a problem, though, because I’m exhausted and can barely keep my eyes open.  It takes all of five minutes to fall fast asleep on my last overnight train in India.

All I want for Christmas is a Vespa

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It’s really nice to be able to say that I had a great night’s sleep last night: my bed was comfortable, the room had heat, the only noise came from my iTunes and there were glow-in-the-dark plastic stars and moons on my ceiling to take me back 20 years.  I’ve also been practicing a technique that I learned in my yoga class in Rishikesh: you start by relaxing your toes then your calves then your thighs, etc and as you go you say, “I relax my toes.  My toes are completely relaxed.”  There’s one line that I always save for last because it encapsulates exactly what I’ve been trying to learn to do here in India: “I relax my heart.  My heart is completely relaxed.”  Here’s hoping that my mind can convince my body.

And then, wonder of wonders, a piping hot shower!  And it lasts as long as I want it to.  There may be something to this idea of paying more than Rs150 a night; by upping my budget from $3.50 to $7 per night I’ve gotten some pretty fine perks.  As if things weren’t good enough, there’s a knock on my door and the manager drops off my laundry, neatly pressed and smelling like flowers.  It’s probably the nicest treatment those tattered old jeans have ever received.  Into my pack they go, with all of my other stuff; I’m loading up to check-out since I have a late train tonight.

On the rooftop café for one last meal, I plan the route I’m going to take on my scooty today.  I’m going to ride a fairly large circle around town and see some of the sights on the outskirts of town and up in the hills.  The store that rents the bikes and scooters is right next to my own hotel, so five minutes after I pay for my chai and toast I’m picking out a 70cc TVS Scooty.  Not the most horsepower in the world, but a. I’m a beginner and b. I’m stingy with my rupiya.

I start to get nervous just sitting in the back alley testing the accelerator and kick-start and all of that.  I start to wonder…If I fall over here will they give me my money back and say I can’t rent it?  Indian traffic is the definition of ordered chaos; what if I get in an accident?  Should I ask about that or will it just make me seem like a bad driver or make them nervous?  My biggest fear is that something on the scooty is going to break.  I can handle running out of gas and walking for petrol, but I don’t have the mechanical knowledge or funds to take care of any major repairs.

But the time for deliberation is over.  They take my passport, wish me a happy journey, and point me towards an alley that slopes fairly sharply downhill and will dump me straight into cross traffic.  Oh dear god.  Well, nothing like a little trial by fire.  Here we go.  With my eyes only half-shut I ride the brake, drag my feet for added stability, send up a quick prayer to whoever is in charge up there and blare my tinny little horn as I make a sharp left onto the street. 

Success!  I am now a part of the problem, not the solution, when it comes to Indian traffic.  The street I pulled onto is extremely quiet at the moment, but as soon as I turn left onto the main road, I'm one of hundreds of people, animals, car, cycles, touk touks, cows and bikes navigating narrow roads without traffic lights or crosswalks.  I picture the road map to the royal cenotaphs in my head and start driving from landmark to landmark: the clocktower; Delhi Gate; bridge over the river; the second roundabout with the statue of Chetak.  I do lose my way a few times, but after stopping a couple times to ask for directions I get there twenty minutes ahead of schedule.

Just to sidetrack a bit, I have a method of finding someone who speaks English that doesn’t require me to eavesdrop.  My tactic is to look at someone’s shoes and glasses; if they’re nicer/clean/stylish, then I assume that that person is probably a bit more educated and maybe even a bit more wealthy than some of the other people around me.  Classist and occasionally wrong as it may be, 9 times out of 10 it helps me find someone I can easily communicate with and get help from.

Back to the cenotaphs.  These are white marble pavilions built in the 13th century that were used to burn the corpses of nobility and royalty (in separate areas, of course) before their ashes were taken to Varanasi to be dumped in the Ganges.  None of them were (supposed to be) used twice, which means that after a couple hundred years you start to run out of space.  These beautiful domed platforms were crammed in wherever they would fit, which means that in a few acres there are 369 cenotaphs to look at!  You could almost walk from platform to platform on the nobles’ side.  On the royal side, though, there are only a few, much larger memorials to the king, queen, princes and princesses.  They’re ornately carved and the sheer number is stunning.

I start talking to the caretaker, the source of the information above; he’s a jovial man with a big smile.  He asks the usual round of questions about me as I get my scooter started again, including my personal non-favorite, “Oh, you are a teacher?  Really, you’re not a model?”  Why?  Why does it always go here?  Even nice conversations with nice guys ends up including something about my looks.  There is no way they’d say these things to an Indian woman and they know full well I’m not model material, so why does it go here?  Why?

Back on my scooter I feel very un-Indian.  You think a white woman walking alone gets stared at?  Try one on a scooter.  Some people don’t know what to make of me; a couple guys almost crash their motorcycles by looking back at this crazy foreign lady putting around like she owns the city and looking a little scandalous.  I’m wearing a tank top that shows my tattoo, my pants are rolled up to the knee showing my other tattoo, my short hair doesn’t flap around in the wind much and there’s no man for me to sit behind.  In other words, I am a liberated woman and proud of it.  Grr!  I’m a strong, independent female who can handle herself in India.  I kick touts’ asses and take cute boys’ names and emails as I rev all 70CCs of my engine up to 35km/hr.  My next thought only knocks my mood down a few pegs as I quickly banish it from mind: Is that why I’m single?  Ugh.

But no time for glum thoughts, this is just plain old FUN.  Definitely one of the 3 coolest things I’ve done in this country.  So the roads are a little crazy—cars passing into oncoming traffic; cows, horses, goats and dogs running or sitting in the streets; no blinkers or traffic lights; everyone honking their horn so everyone else knows they’re there, but Mondays are actually quieter so it’s a good day to be driving.  Sometimes when I get a little flummoxed I instinctively try to drive on the right, which doesn’t help the situation.

After getting money from the ATM, a man guides me to Saheliyon gardens, made to entertain the 48 maidens that came with the dowry of a Moghul princess.  My new friend leads me there on his own scooter then gives me his card (he’s a building materials distributor for construction sites and so basically a god in this country) and says to call him later.  He’d like to have me over to dinner with his family this evening.  I tell him I honored and grateful, but even though I can’t make any promises that might be pretty cool and I will definitely consider it.

The garden is small, but I take my time to sit in the sun, accidentally overhearing the story of a woman who almost drowned in one of the fountains (apparently the main fountain is ten feet deep and the plants that grow in the water make it difficult to surface if you go under).  It’s fun to imagine dozens of women in the finest, brightly-colored silk saris with bangles on their limbs walking from fountain to fountain while peacocks scatter at their feet.

There are two lakes in Udaipur and going back into town I get to drive the coastal road along the more northern of the two, lake Pichola.  The sun and wind on my skin feel incredible (the grit and dust maybe not so much), despite the knowledge that I’m just making my terrible dry skin even worse.  This road will take me to one of the key locations from the movie Octopussy, the Monsoon Palace.  It’s on top of a mountain in a nature preserve just outside of town, and while a few doubts about my scooter’s engine power pop into my head on the way up—then about its braking capabilities on the way down—it’s a marvelously peaceful and scenic trip.  The palace itself is shabby and basically falling down, but the views over the hills, lakes and city are second to none.  Without the smog, it would be perfection.

To return to town, I have to ride in through the old city gates and then along the walls of the original fort.  Suddenly, instead of paying close attention to the road I’m back to imagining what it must have been like to live here when it was first constructed.  I doubt the roads have changed much, either in their condition or general layout, but I’m sure the mess of cars and the electrical wiring creating a dangerous lattice above my head are new.

Before I head south past my hotel I have just enough time for pit stop back at Café Namaste where they have more warm date and walnut pie.  Friggin’ delicious, I’m telling you.  I also have a rose lassi that unfortunately I can’t taste because of my cold.  But I can tell you it was a lovely light shade of pink.  Moving south I stop to buy a ticket for a sunset boat ride later today then go to the haveli (insulated home) heritage museum, one of the most pleasant surprises I’ve had in India.

The museum is in a haveli that has been meticulously reconstructed and furnished with authentic artifacts from the 1400s and 1500s.  There are quarters for the men, women, in-laws, children and servants, and each room was reconstructed to give an accurate picture of daily life in Udaipur five hundred years ago.  Colored glass, toys, kitchenware, clothes, paintings on the walls, games, bathroom and toilet accoutrements…it’s all there for you to put yourself back in the time of maharajas and courtesans.  Possibly the best part of the museum, however, is only about ten years old.  They’ve turned the basement into a surprisingly large and well-stocked modern art gallery.  The paintings and sculptures are from Udaipur’s young and upcoming talents, and I would have paid even more just to see the ten rooms given lowest billing.  If I didn’t have a boat to catch, I would stay for hours.

“Lauren!”  I come to a screeching stop--no small feat in a narrow, crowded alley with foot-deep open gutters on both sides--and look over to see a scruffy-looking foreigner in jeans and a t-shirt.  “Marc!  Oh, my god, you made it!  Want to go on a boat ride?”  I’m still thanking the gods for their generous nature as Marc, the cute Australian guy I met in Varanasi, hops onto the back of my scooter (built for one, incidentally).  I have a lot to apologize for as I drive: not emailing like I said I would; looking and probably smelling like a hot mess; being in a hurry to make the boat ride.

I also need to apologize for my driving.  Oh, my god sometimes I’m such a girl.  As soon as I’m around a cute boy I apparently lose all hand-eye coordination and only help support the stereotype about female drivers.  Okay, that’s not true; it’s actually due to the fact that he weighs way more than I do and this scooter is only built for one.  I wobble and worry my way down to the boat dock, though, and later in the day Marc admits to being impressed that not only did I manage his weight well and keep us upright, but that I was willing to drive in this country at all.  Yeah, my ego definitely gets a boost when he says he doesn’t know many girls brave enough to do that.

As we go for our sunset boat ride, there’s no doubt that Udaipur is the place to go in India if you’re in love.  Marc is the first to broach the subject of romance and talk about how it would be a great place to go with a girlfriend.  I can only sigh and agree and dream…  All right, anyway, we ride along the City Palace then turn around and head back towards the two islands in the lake.  The first is covered by the Lake Palace Hotel, also prominently featured in Octopussy, which requires either a hotel or restaurant reservation to get to.   The second, Jagmandir, has a palace that has been turned into a hotel, but this one is open to visitors from the boat tour.  It has marble elephants to greet you as you step off the boat and the inner courtyards have gardens and a café.  You can rent little bungalows here that look out over a bubbling fountain decorated with large red, orange and pink flowers for a few thousand rupees a night.  The romantic mood kicks into high gear when the sun finally sets and they turn on colored lights all over the hotel.  There’s also a man using small wood sticks to tap out a beautiful tune on bowls of water filled to various depths.  THIS IS PARADISE.  All too soon the spell is broken, though, and it’s time to return to the dock.

After our ride, Marc and I scoot over the bridge to get twilight pictures of the sights we just saw from the boat.  He’s pretty jealous of my camera, and I admit I like to show if off, so I take a few more shots than I had intended.  He suggests dinner at a restaurant just nearby, Ambrai, which turns out to be totally expensive and hopelessly romantic, with candle-lit tables looking out over lake, palaces, etc.  I get my first cocktail in India, a gin and tonic.  Yum.  A man after my own heart, Marc’s a devoted carnivore; unfortunately, though, he’s one of those freaks of nature who can eat 6,000 calories a day and not gain any weight.  I order govind gatta, chickpea flour dumplings in gravy, but I’m not sure if I can’t taste it because it’s so horribly spicy or because of my cold.

Marc’s really easy to talk to, thanks to our similar personalities and interests, and he’s got a great sense of humor.  I enjoyed dinner immensely, but I’m embarrassed that I couldn’t stop coughing and I’m sure I looked pretty ragged.  But I managed to learn a bit about him: his job is cleaning large events and festivals around the world; he travels as much as he can and he’s been around the planet, both alone and with friends; he’s never had a beard like the one he’s got now; he likes triathlons; he’s thinking about getting into education; he picked up a cough while trekking in Nepal; he’s a definite morning person and can’t stay up past 10 without a good excuse.  But then lets slip two little words that tell me a fact that I was hoping I wouldn’t learn: “My girlfriend…”  He tries to cover and start over, but too late, they’re out there.  C’est la vie.

In any case, I had a great time and we’re going to meet up again in Jodhpur.  It’ll be fun to see the same person for more than a day or two, and something tells me he’s really easy to travel with.  He doesn’t talk your ear off, but you know he’s willing to chat if you want to.  It’s hard to get on the train, though, because Udaipur is difficult to say goodbye to.  Someday, though, I’ll be back and hopefully not alone.