Tag: Travel

Tourists in Tiger Territory

          The morning air in Basanti was warm, with smog draped over the pink-orange sunrise like a thick layer of grey chiffon. After a 2-hour drive southeast from my Dadu Ji’s (granddad’s) house in Kolkata, we had reached the far edges of the state of West Bengal and indeed the outer borders of the country of India, but we had not yet escaped the ring of air pollution that surrounds the city center.

          The streets of Basanti town were abuzz with shopkeepers preparing their wares, mother cows bellowing to their young, and tropical birds cheerfully singing the tunes for which they were named: papiha (Common Hawk-Cuckoo), kokila (Asian Koel), kowah (Crow). Their songs were underscored by the incessant thrumming of mosquitoes, menacing man and animal alike as they flitted in search of their next victims. Mosquitoes, I believe, were put on this planet to humble humans — after all, their mere presence reduces us from power-hungry predators to paltry prey.

          We unloaded our car briskly, swatting the air vigorously all the while, then made our way to the waterside, where a sign welcomed us:

Sundarbans National Park & Tiger Reserve

          A boat and its crew awaited us at the dock: the Delta Queen, captained by a majestically mustached man named Mrittunjoy. The Delta Queen was our ticket into the Sundarbans, the world’s largest mangrove forest situated within the world’s largest river delta. Spanning two countries (India and Bangladesh) and nearly 4,000 square miles, this region boasts a wide range of flora and fauna, with over 200 bird species alone. But the jungle, we were told, was full of terrible dangers—ranging from tree roots to tigers to territorial bees – and thus the water was the safest place for us to observe its biodiversity.

Mangrove trees are unique in that they have aerial roots or “breathing roots” that grow up and out of the water-logged soil. This incredible adaptation has enabled mangroves to thrive in extremely harsh, saline environments; however, these breathing roots are also very sharp and hazardous for land-dwellers.

          Just as the sun began to peek out from behind its ashen curtain, the Delta Queen embarked on its 3-day journey into the Sundarbans Delta, where the sacred Ganges River empties into the Bay of Bengal. Mrittunjoy had a keen eye for spotting birds, and he promptly began to point out Kingfishers concealed in masses of mangrove roots. He soliloquized about the species of the Sundarbans; about the sea and its stringent saltiness; about the sweets that might be served at snack-time. Within only a few hours, we had seen deer, monitor lizards, birds of prey, and hundreds of mudskippers along the canal shores.

This amazing shot of a Black-Capped Kingfisher was captured by my incredibly talented uncle, Partha Pratim Saha. You can check out more of his photography on his Instagram and website. 

          Then, in the late afternoon, as our boat wove down a wider waterway, my sister leapt up from her seat and pointed excitedly towards land. I craned my neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of an elusive Bengal tiger. Instead, I saw…

          A woman. She balanced a pot on her head as she retreated from the riverbank, the pleats of her sari swaying in time with her gait. I squinted at this sight, struggling to see what had attracted my sister’s attention.

          “People live out here?” my sister asked in awe.

          Despite the dangers advertised to us, people do in fact live out there: 4.5 million on the Indian side and even more in Bangladesh. Much of the Sundarbans is protected as a nature reserve, but this region is still one of the most densely populated in the world. The fertile floodplains surrounding the delta are ideal for agricultural production, and there are small fishing villages on the islands within the delta. These settlements are simple and extremely rural, sometimes only accessible by boat.

          Discomfort settled over me as I realized that we had been observing these villagers with unabashed scrutiny, just as we had been observing the flora and the fauna. They’re not here for my viewing pleasure, I scorned myself. Yet, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The sight of this woman was jarring, I realized, because her life was so necessarily attuned and inextricably tethered to the patterns of the earth: the comings and goings of the rains, the cycles of the moon, the ebbs and flows of the tide. Every morning, while I stumble to my bathroom and turn on the tap, this woman carries a pot down to the riverside and fetches her water straight from the Sundarbans Delta. Though united by our shared humanity, I couldn’t help but feel species away from her, as distant as I felt from the exotic Kingfishers.

          Over the remainder of our jungle cruise, Mrittunjoy pointed out local fishing boats and informed us about the villagers’ practices of collecting honey from wild rock bees. He explained that the locals fish the delta from June to December, then pause all fishing activities and collect honey between March and May to ensure sustainable harvesting practices. As he continued to intersperse facts about the local people’s customs with his commentary on cobras and crocodiles, my unease grew. I became acutely aware of the separation between us and them; between our tour boat and the Sundarbans – their home.

          Indeed, from the safety of our tour boat, it was all too easy to view these villagers as another species altogether; to assume that they are somehow less susceptible to the forecasted dangers of the Sundarbans simply by virtue of surviving there everyday. This is not the case. The villagers enter the jungle at their own peril, for tiger attacks are common. Yet, they have no choice; aquaculture and beekeeping are the only ways for them to make a living. In this way, the villagers are equal contributors to the Sundarbans ecosystem; they survive on the offerings of the jungle, at any time prone to becoming offerings themselves – whether to tigers or to mosquitoes. Sometimes predators, sometimes prey, these villagers remind us that humans are but one species acting within complex, multi-species ecosystems. They challenge the illusion that humans are always, unequivocally, at the top of the food chain.

(c)PPS Photography
(c)PPS Photography
(c)PPS Photography

Some more breathtaking captures of the Sundarbans food chain by my uncle, Partha Pratim Saha. 

          But then, if the villagers are prey, what is it that seeks to predate them? Is it really the tigers, prowling innocently in search of their next meal? Or is it the tour companies that ferry paying foreigners out by the dozens, predatory in their promise of ‘exotic experiences’ at the expense of ecological peace? These tour companies are required to hold permits, and they are (in theory) regulated by strict legislation. But the laws prohibiting pollution are not enforced – I personally witnessed a great deal of waste during our three days onboard the Delta Queen. Though I remained firmly on the boat, I was drawn into this larger socio-political ecosystem of the Sundarbans, animated not by waters and winds but by neoliberal greed and corruption. We may have been safe from the jungle, but the jungle was not safe from us.

          In climate change discourse, humans are usually positioned against nature — and for good reason! Humans have too often exploited nature’s balance to our gain. However, I reject the notion that humans are always and can only ever be antagonistic forces on nature. As we see in the Sundarbans, humans can be protectors and stewards of their lands; they, too, can contribute to ecological balance. We need only to remember that we are – despite our daily differences – the same species as the villagers of the Sundarbans. We are products of our environments, not just polluters of them.

          Though protected as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, the fragile brackish ecosystem of the Sundarbans is extremely vulnerable to climate change, and many of its inhabitant species are endangered—including humans!! Rising salinity levels, coastline erosion, cyclones, and floods threaten to disrupt the precarious natural balance of the Sundarbans and displace the millions of people who live there, triggering an environmental refugee crisis. We cannot allow this to happen!

Climate change is NOT inevitable OR irreversible.

We are ALL a part of this global ecosystem, and we all stand to benefit by saving it.

          If you are interested in learning more about the Sundarbans, or if you’d like to donate in support of its inhabitants, please visit the links below:

Read about/ see maps of the Sundarbans UNESCO World Heritage Site

Read Misreading the Bengal Delta by Camelia Dewan

Donate to the Sundarban Foundation to support tiger victims and other humans in the Sundarbans through medical aid, employment, and education.

Donate to The Canopy Project Sundarbans to support environmental conservation and restoration.

Donate to AID India to support natural disaster relief and climate resilience infrastructure.

Photo by Partha Pratim Saha

The Truth About Birthright Israel – Part One

          I inherited Jewishness from my mother, so I have had the bittersweet experience of visiting Israel for free. Yes, for FREE. The Israeli government runs a program called “Taglit (Discovery)-Birthright Israel,” otherwise known as “Birthright Israel” or simply, “Birthright.” This program sponsors ten-day trips to Israel for all Jews between the ages of 18 and 26, and it covers ALL expenses, including airfare, accommodations, meals, transportation, and cultural experiences. The eligibility requirements are straightforward: you must have at least one parent of Jewish descent or have converted to Judaism through a recognized Jewish movement. As the name implies, the program is founded on the assumption that all Jews have a birthright to discover the Jewish homeland and connect with their Jewish identity. Readers, perhaps you see where this is headed, but dear readers…I did not.

          Here, I must pause to make a disclaimer: not all Jews are Zionist. I do not believe that any religion or perceived birthright is justification for violence, oppression, and apartheid. Make no mistake — Israel is an apartheid state. For this reason, I will continue to refer to my Taglit trip as “birthright,” because I do not feel that Jews have any more birthright over that land than the people who have resided there for centuries. Furthermore, I use the terms “Israel” and “occupied Palestine” to refer to the same region; “Israel” occasionally in the context of the Jewish state, “occupied Palestine” everywhere else.

          Despite my staunch opposition to modern political Zionism, I do not wish to downplay the beauty of Judaism in my attempt to expose the lesser-known truths about Taglit-Birthright. It was an enormous privilege to visit this region and experience its history. This article covers Jewish history and Israeli culture; please visit Part Two to read about the parts of my trip that left a sour taste in my mouth: the discrimination, the propaganda, and the shocking geo-political realities of the Zionist state.

THE TRIP

          My “Birthright Israel” journey took place in summer of 2018, shortly after I trained to become a yoga teacher. By that time, I had connected profoundly with my Indian heritage, and I yearned to do the same with my Jewish roots. I thought, an all-expenses-paid opportunity to learn about Jewish history and culture? Sign me up! Ultimately, I did learn about Jewish history and culture, but I was not entirely pleased by my findings.

          Our itinerary was jampacked, and we didn’t even have time to recover from the jetlag before we were piled onto a coach bus with the words “Taglit-Birthright” emblazoned on the side. In ten short days, we were shuttled from border to border to take in all the sights and sounds of occupied Palestine. We never stayed in one hotel for more than two nights; we never ate at the same place twice; we truly experienced a lot of the country through the eyes of Israeli settlers. Here are some of the highlights from my trip:

West Asian Agriculture

          In the Shomron region in northern occupied Palestine, we visited Kibbutz Ein-Shemer. A Kibbutz is an intentional community traditionally based on agriculture, so we explored Ein-Shemer’s greenhouses and fruit orchards to learn about the community’s history, as well as the role of agriculture in Israel’s economy. Several Kibbutz members joined us to discuss their lifestyles and daily activities on the Kibbutz, and they even invited us to enjoy some fresh fruits and veggies from the greenhouses!

            At the end of our Kibbutz tour, each of us were given a dove to release. To this day, I have no idea why we did this. Perhaps they were attempting a symbolic gesture of peace? Let me know what you think in the comments.

Graffiti Tour in Tel Aviv

          Tel Aviv, a vibrant urban center, plays host to a wide range of artists, many of whose mediums are the streets. As we wandered the city, our tour guide pointed out various works on building facades, mailboxes, fences, and sidewalks. He highlighted motifs in each piece and provided context on well-known graffiti artists, along with the socio-political messages that they attempt to convey through their work. We also visited some indoor galleries that showcased Tel Aviv’s more orthodox artisanship.

Yad Vashem Holocaust Memorial

          Perhaps the most chilling and solemn moment of my trip was our visit to Yad Vashem, the World Holocaust Remembrance Center. Located on a hill overlooking Jerusalem, the museum is a long, narrow, dimly lit building with exhibitions designed to be viewed in a linear fashion. Our tour guide explained that the building’s structure invokes the Jews’ experience of the Holocaust, such that the visitor enters a long, dark tunnel with no end in sight. We spent more than three hours inside the museum, observing photos of concentration camps, simulations of gas chambers, and glass cases full of abandoned shoes. In seeing those snippets of Jewish life during the Holocaust, the gravity of their genocide fell upon me. The final exhibit is a dome-shaped room with floor-to-ceiling projections that flash rotating photos of Holocaust victims. In a poignant moment of collective grief, I wept alongside my Jewish peers for the loss of our ancestors.

            When our tour concluded, we emerged from the dark building into daylight, where we paused before the vast landscape of the Holy Land. The gaping exit of Yad Vashem, our tour guide told us, symbolizes the liberation of the Jews from concentration camps and the ultimate creation of the new Jewish state, where Jews could finally be freed from generations of violence. Yad Vashem served as a profound reminder that the Holocaust continues to shape contemporary Judaism and its people.  

No pictures included of the Holocaust memorial, for obvious reasons. This is the view of Jerusalem at the end of the museum.

Hezekiah's Tunnels under Jerusalem

          As the Hebrew Bible foretold, the City of David (the ancient core of Jerusalem), rests upon a series of underground tunnels that were once used to transport fresh water from the Gihon Spring to the Siloam Pool—a life-giving source for the ancient peoples of Jerusalem. Largely regarded as an extraordinary and baffling feat of engineering, these tunnels are attributed to Hezekiah, the reigning King of Judah circa late 8th  century to 687 BCE. Biblical scholars believe that Hezekiah constructed these tunnels so that he could fortify against Assyrian invasion without compromising the city’s water source.

            Modern Jerusalem has since implemented newer methods of irrigation, so Hezekiah’s tunnels have become a tourist attraction, allowing visitors to wade through stagnant water for a portion of the tunnels’ 533-meter length. Inevitably, this tour is a staple of “Birthright” trips, and we geared up with water shoes and shorts to descend underground. The tunnels are approximately two feet wide and pitch-black, with water levels ranging from ankle-deep to thigh-deep depending on the location (and your height, of course). Needless to say, I don’t recommend Hezekiah’s tunnels for anyone prone to claustrophobia, aquaphobia, or nyctophobia. However, this tour was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I was fascinated by the remarkable ancient infrastructure.

            To my dismay, my “Birthright” peers did not take this tour as seriously. Rather than listening to our tour guide’s historical talk, they opted to vape, blast obscene music from their portable speakers, and chatter incessantly. As you might imagine, noises ricochet quite loudly in narrow, water-filled corridors. I often wonder whether my tour may have been more educational and less fear-inducing had I traveled with a more respectful group.

Camping with Bedouins in the Negev Desert

          The Bedouin are nomadic Arab tribes that have herded animals such as sheep, goats, and camels throughout the deserts of Northern Africa and the Middle East since 6000 BCE. Some Bedouins have adopted urban, sedentary lifestyles in the last two centuries, while many others live semi-sedentary lifestyles. Large groups of the latter now inhabit tent settlements in the Negev desert in occupied Palestine. Despite their exposure to Israeli culture and politics, the Bedouins have retained their traditional customs and language (Arabic), which include “Bedouin Hospitality.” Thus, the Bedouins welcomed my “Birthright” group with open arms.

            During our stay, we slept in a Bedouin tent for a night, partially exposed to the hot and sandy elements. The desert was so quiet—that night was my best sleep the whole trip. We shared a meal with our host tribe, comprised of lamb, rice, and a highly anticipated cup of Bedouin coffee: a dark, bitter roast with a unique blend of spices. We ate with our hands (just like in India!) while seated on cushions on the floor. A Bedouin man gave us a talk on their traditional art forms, which range from loom-woven textiles to clay pottery to animal-hoof utensils. The Bedouins also took us for a camel ride through the desert, which was somewhat of a roller coaster—the camels would kneel on their front legs to allow us to mount, then stand suddenly, one leg at a time, requiring us to hold on to the reigns for dear life.

The Dead Sea

          The Dead Sea lies at the lowest land-based elevation on earth, bordered by Jordan to the East and occupied Palestine to the West. This body of water is not actually a sea at all, but rather a salt lake with such high levels of salinity that swimming in it is more like floating. Being one of the world’s saltiest bodies of water, the Dead Sea is a harsh environment for plants and animals, hence its name.

            This historic landmark, mentioned throughout Jewish and Biblical literature, is one of the most anticipated destinations on the “Birthright” itinerary, but after wading into the waters, I began to wonder why. Within moments of my effortless float, inordinate amounts of salt began to seep into my skin and burn my nose, ears, nailbeds, and other unmentionable parts of my body. The experience of being lifted to the water’s surface was uncanny, but I didn’t linger to relish it. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the white sands and sunny sights of this natural marvel, grateful for the opportunity to visit.

            Perhaps more famous than the Dead Sea itself is its mud: silt from the lake’s shores that has absorbed the water’s salinity. Many health and wellness companies have profited by packaging this mud into commercial mud masks, which are now sold globally. These entrepreneurial claims are not mere pseudoscience—medical researchers have established that high concentrations of salt and magnesium, among other minerals in the mud, can effectively treat a wide range of conditions, including psoriasis, arthritis, acne, and chronic pain. However, I was surprised to discover that Dead Sea tourists cannot simply dig up this miraculous mud. Instead, you must visit nearby spa shops that sell mud products for 70 to 350 Shekels. My group leaders graciously purchased several masks for us all to share, so I slathered myself in the magic elixir of yore. Maybe it cured me of all my ailments? Only time will tell.

Hiking Masada

          Hebrew for “fortress;” Masada is a UNESCO World Heritage Site for two palaces built by Herod the Great. Masada was fortified during the 1st century BCE to protect the palaces against Roman Siege. Situated atop an isolated plateau in southern occupied Palestine, Masada is only accessible by foot and by cable car. There are two trails that lead to the top of the plateau, both of which are perilously narrow and steep. My “Birthright” group traversed the Roman Ramp trail in the darkness of early morning, hoping to reach the summit in time to see the sun rising over the Dead Sea. Not much remains of the palace structures at the top, but the scenery was certainly stunning.

Shabbat (The Old City & The White City)

          Also known as the day of rest, Shabbat is an ancient Jewish tradition wherein Jews refrain from work activities and take rest. Every week, Shabbat begins at sundown on Friday and continues through sundown on Saturday evening. Each Jewish family has unique Shabbat practices, but traditionally, Shabbat consists of three required meals: Friday night dinner, Saturday lunch, and Saturday dinner, with the first of these three being the most commonly observed. Religious Jews attend synagogue on Saturday morning to read the Torah and perform special Shabbat prayers. Other traditions include indulging in meat and other fancy foods, wearing nice clothes, lighting candles, and greeting others with the traditional greeting, “Shabbat Shalom!” Any form of work is strictly prohibited on Shabbat, so Jews perform housework on Friday to prepare, then spend Saturday socializing, eating, worshipping, and relaxing.

            My “Birthright” trip spanned Friday to Sunday, so I celebrated two Shabbats in occupied Palestine. The first was spent in Jerusalem, the Old City, where we visited the Western (Wailing) Wall and learned about religious Shabbat customs. Then we lit candles, shared sentiments of blessings and gratitude with the group, and enjoyed a meal together.

            Our second Shabbat took place in Tel Aviv, the White City. Not everyone who lives in occupied Palestine is Jewish, but many are—as a result, most businesses close at sundown on Friday and do not reopen until sundown the following day. It was fascinating to walk the deserted streets of this normally bustling city, knowing that everyone was at home, enjoying restorative communion with their friends and families.

The Western Wall

          At the center of the Old City of Jerusalem is the Temple Mount, the holiest site in Judaism. The Temple Mount is thought to be the location of the Holy of Holies, a term used in the Hebrew Bible to denote a spiritual junction between Heaven and Earth; an inner sanctum where God’s presence appears. As such, two temples have been built in this spot to house this sacred sanctuary and its precious treasure: the Ark of the Covenant. The first temple was commissioned by King Solomon circa 10th century BCE and stood until its destruction by the Neo-Babylonian Empire in 587 BCE. A second temple was constructed nearly a century later and served as a site of worship until its destruction by the Romans in 70 CE. A Third Temple has not yet been built, as the Temple Mount is currently occupied by the Dome of the Rock and Al-Aqsa Mosque, a site of religious significance in Islam.  

            Even still, this site retains historical importance and divine presence for Jews. The Temple Mount rests on a hill surrounded by retaining walls, one of which is the Western Wall. Entry to the Temple Mount is restricted, so Jews gather at the Western Wall to pray in proximity to the Holy of Holies, which is believed to lie just behind the wall.

          Of all the things we did on my “Birthright” trip, our visit to the Western Wall was by far the most powerful and profound. The women were asked to cover our hair with scarves, and we were separated by sex; the men were directed to the left side, the women to the right. When we got close, we were permitted to touch the wall and pray for as long as we felt compelled. I must admit, I don’t have much of a relationship with the Jewish God (assuming He/ She is different from the divine forces I believe in), but I couldn’t help but be overcome by the tangible spirituality surrounding me as I approached the wall. On all sides, women pressed their faces and palms against the worn stone—some muttered prayers in hushed tones, while others loudly expressed their devotion; many more simply wept. A deep sense of loving faith hung in the air, like a warm blanket embracing all of us at once. I saw then and there why the Western Wall has been nicknamed the “Wailing Wall,” for even I was brought to tears.

          To understate the great history and spiritual power that I experienced on my trip would be an immense disservice to occupied Palestine, as well as the people of all cultures and faiths that comprise its population. This small swath of land is a globally significant site for archeologists, biblical scholars, followers of Abrahamic religion, and world travelers alike; I consider myself lucky to have been able to explore even a fraction of it, let alone in the capacity Taglit enabled me to.

          However, I cannot in good faith discuss the good parts of my “Birthright” trip without giving equal attention to the ethically concerning parts. I know now that my luxurious experience came at the expense of Palestinian lives. Please visit The Truth About Birthright Israel – Part Two to read about the not-so-subtle agenda of Taglit-Birthright Israel. 

Let the Good Times Roll

          Did you know that there are no open container laws in New Orleans?

          I didn’t. Frankly, I didn’t know what to expect when I flew into NOLA on the eve of Mardi Gras. I have always wanted to celebrate Mardi Gras in New Orleans, but only because of the living room in my childhood home. My mother painted the walls a dark, royal purple and hung feathered masks to match. I had a strong visual of the iconic event, but in my mind, it was completely distanced from its context. New Orleans couldn’t possibly be a city in Louisiana, not in the United States at all, but rather, a whimsical land outside of space and time where sequined fairies shower you with beads and court jesters dance in the streets.

          My conception wasn’t entirely false. Sequined fairies do shower you with beads, and court jesters do dance in the streets. New Orleans at Mardi Gras embodies liminality. Everyone is either coming or going, yet no one has any real place to be. All other affairs come to a screeching halt. The laws and morals of everyday life needn’t apply—after all, it’s Mardi Gras, baby.  At least, this seemed to be the attitude held by my friend Payton, who lived in New Orleans and hosted me for the week. His job gave him the week prior to Mardi Gras off, so he spent his free days attending parades and collecting festive paraphernalia. He proudly showed off his favorite “throws”—stacks of plastic cups and handfuls of fake doubloons—while boasting his tried-and-true method for capturing a Krewe member’s attention aboard a float. I won’t reveal his secret, of course; everyone must discover their own methods.

          Unsurprisingly, the debauchery and chaos of Mardi Gras are steeped in age-old religious tradition. And who better than the Catholics, of course, to throw a raucous sin fest every year to commemorate the season of salvation?

          Rather than tell you where it all starts, it’s easier for me to explain where it ends, and that’s Easter Sunday. Easter falls on the first Sunday after the Paschal full moon, and the forty days preceding the feast are called Lent. This is a time of fasting and religious observance, wherein Catholics honor the forty days Jesus spent wandering in the desert prior to his crucifixion. They will usually make a Lenten sacrifice (such as a food or habit) and/ or undertake a spiritual discipline (such as daily devotional or prayer) to honor Jesus’s ultimate sacrifice. Many Catholics also forgo meat. Easter, then, is a welcome respite; the breaking of the long fast; a light at the end of the tunnel. The period of grief is necessarily ended by celebration of the great miracle of Christianity.

          But let’s keep winding the clock back. Lent kicks off with Ash Wednesday, when Catholics attend mass in the morning to formally begin the fast. If we go back one day further, we land on the Tuesday before Lent. This Tuesday is known as *Fat Tuesday* in honor of the gluttony that you’re meant to indulge in on the day before you fast. Traditionally, Catholics eat rich, fatty foods the night before Lenten season, then repent their sins one last time before the piety begins. It’s a classic pre-game celebration, and because it’s such a great idea, lots of non-Christians have joined in on the Fat Tuesday festivities as well. Mardi Gras is a literal translation of “Fat Tuesday” in French, and you don’t even have to be Catholic to partake!

          France, a nation that proudly celebrates Carnival, is responsible for bringing the festivities to Louisiana. In 1699, on the eve of Lent, French-Canadian explorer Jean Baptiste Le Moyne Sieur de Bienville arrived on a plot near New Orleans and declared it the “Pointe du Mardi Gras.” I guess the people of New Orleans took that title and ran with it, because now the city is infamous for its rowdy pre-Lent party. Suffice it to say that the world has Catholicism to thank for this thrilling tradition.

Festivities

            The NOLA Mardi Gras celebration consists mainly of lavish parades, hosted by exclusive groups called Krewes. The Krewes, usually named for Classical heroes and Gods (Bacchus, Sparta, Dionysus, etc.), build their own floats, plan performances, and design costumes, all of which are shrouded in secrecy until the grand Mardi Gras reveal. Unless you’re one of the lucky few privies to a Krewe gathering, you’ll have to set up camp on the parade route to see the resulting masterpieces.

            Parades start as early as a month before Fat Tuesday and each follow different routes, though most of them travel west through the French Quarter. Festivalgoers stake out spots hours before the parade to socialize, dance, eat, drink, and generally cause a ruckus. I attended my first parade with some of Payton’s friends, who prepared an entire parade-side cookout. We hauled a charcoal grill and carts full of food to the street, where we commenced a needlessly elaborate barbecue. Our neighbors to the right blasted music from their boombox while the couple to our left danced in matching sequined outfits, and we offered hot dogs to both parties in the spirit of Mardi Gras abundance. I opted for a smoky veggie skewer, of course.

          Most parades are still led by Flambeaux—a line of flaming torches that were once crucial for providing light for the festivities. Even after the advent of streetlights, they remained a symbol of the party to follow. The Flambeaux announce the arrival of the Krewe and its parade: gargantuan floats, costumed dancers, and showers of petty treasures—namely beaded necklaces and plastic masks. Attendees crowd the floats as they pass by, pleading and performing for a chance to catch the krewe’s exclusive throws. Some of my favorite catches included a set of plush dice and a Krewe of Orpheus coin.

          Masks, the iconic symbol of Mardi Gras, allow wearers to temporarily transcend borders of class, status, race, and religion. They grant the wearer freedom to behave freely during the Carnival season. Masks lend to the liminality of the event; no one is who they usually are. You can find plastic masks littering the streets after a parade, but the best ones require exquisite craftsmanship and painstaking detail. I quite enjoyed perusing the mask shops on Bourbon Street, where each mask alluded to a different culture or time, from 18th century Commedia Dell’arte to 14th century plague doctors to ancient dramatic traditions all over the world.

     Now, Mardi Gras doesn’t have to be all booze and belligerence (although you’ll see plenty of that!). In the name of contextualizing the chaos, I have some travel recommendations for my readers.

Food

Union Ramen: Japanese cuisine curated by a Vietnamese chef and a Filipino restauranteur—a true melting pot! Try the beggar’s purse dumplings, the shishito peppers, and the miso ramen with oyster mushrooms.

Juan’s Flying Burrito: Creole-tinged Tex-Mex with an emphasis on burritos. Chips & queso are great, of course, but the vegetarian options are numerous; order the tofu Juaha roll, the veggie punk burrito, or the BBQ mushroom quesadillas.

The Vintage: a classy little café bar with a tantalizing selection of beignets, baked fresh daily with rotating flavors. They also serve hors d’oeuvres and wine if you’re into that. I was extremely tempted by the truffle parmesan fries.

San Lorenzo: an ode to coastal Italian cuisine nestled in the historic St. Vincent Hotel. The lounge is spacious, warmly lit, and the dishes showcase the diversity of flavors in NOLA. I recommend the zucchini fritti and the arugula salad.

Creole Creamery: a local ice cream joint with a large selection of novelty ice cream flavors ranging from lavender honey to petit four. My favorite was chocolate doberge, but the flavors rotate regularly. Go check out the new menu when you’re there!

NOLA Caye: a contemporary take on regional New Orleans cuisine, which is a hybrid of European, Indigenous American, African, and Caribbean flavors. Unfortunately, creole food leaves something to be desired for vegetarians, but Caye has struck a beautiful balance. They’re known for their seafood, but I loved the crispy plantains and the jalapeño-cheddar grits.

Bittersweet Confections: a quaint café/ bakery on Magazine St. They offer delectable pastries as well as a full breakfast-lunch menu. I practically inhaled my veggie wrap (okay, maybe I was just starving).

Sucre Bakery: a pastry haven. If you’re like me, you’ll be craving a traditional macaron in this French-influenced city. This bakery has every flavor of the delicate dessert that you can imagine, plus coffee and other baked goods. Even if you don’t like macarons, you’ll love seeing the vibrant rounds stacked in cake form behind the case.

Magnolia Sugar and Spice: a hot-sauce-shop-slash-bakery in the French Quarter that specializes in a classic nutty confection: the praline. Incredibly sweet and impossibly good; I wish I could load a whole suitcase full to take some home with me.

HONORARY MENTION- Auction House Market: a stunning food hall that WAS in the Warehouse District. Sadly, this co-op closed shortly after my visit, but it was so adorable that it deserved a mention here. The central bar was adorned with trailing plants and provided a perfect workspace for local professionals. The back room featured a gorgeous moss wall—I sat there sipping my latte and enjoying the botanical view for hours.

City History & Culture

Café du Monde: OKAY, you caught me, the first one is just more food. I came to realize that between creole cuisine and French pastries, food is a large part of NOLA culture. If you’re wondering where to find a classic New Orleans beignet, look no further—this is THE spot. Their outdoor stand in the French Market offers the full experience: freshly fried pastry dough copiously coated in powdered sugar that is simply *impossible* to not get all over your clothes and face. You can also sip a chicory coffee while you people watch, which is sure to be an exciting sport around Mardi Gras time.

French Quarter: the historic district around which everything in New Orleans revolves. This area has something for everyone: upscale boutiques, restaurants and bars, horse-drawn carriages, voodoo shops, and ghost tours that tackle NOLA’s dark history of slave torture. Bourbon Street, a 13-block stretch of bars and neon, plays host to late-night gatherings and streetside parties. This neighborhood showcases the wrought iron balconies and lush courtyards that characterize NOLA architecture.

Mississippi River: the waterfront bisects the French Quarter and offers a bustling snapshot of the city, with commemorative statues and street vendors galore. Throughout history, the river has signified commerce, but large industrial complexes blocked the waterfront from public access. Since the warehouses were removed in the 1970s, visitors have enjoyed the river with beachside picnics and riverboat tours.

The steps were strewn with party paraphernalia; I imagine they're usually much cleaner!

St. Louis Cathedral: the oldest continuously active church in the United States!!! Also known as the Cathedral-Basilica of Saint Louis King of France, this cathedral stands at the edge of the French Quarter and the Mississippi River, boasting jaw-dropping architecture and stained-glass art. The building undergoes regular renovations to reinforce the 200-year-old structure, but Catholics still attend Sunday morning service every week. Interestingly, the site has been a place of worship for even longer, but the original building was burned to the ground in 1788. The current cathedral has stood since 1793.

The Swamp: New Orleans belongs to a temperate deciduous forest biome with marshes all along its tributaries. These boggy inlets create one of the longest coastlines in the United States! Sadly, I did not encounter any gators while down in the bayou, but these forested wetlands play host to complex ecosystems with turtles, pelicans, mosses, and cypress trees, the latter of which play a vital role in protecting the swamp from soil erosion. The rough terrain of this fragile ecosystem has long protected New Orleans from Southern attacks, while providing access to important oceanic trade routes.

Buckner Mansion: built by a cotton kingpin in 1856, this mansion is one of many in the Garden District, featuring grandiose gates, stone columns, and not one, not two, but three ballrooms! The property is rumored to be haunted by the Buckner family’s slave, Josephine, which explains why it was chosen as the set for American Horror Story Season 3: Coven. Nowadays, ghost enthusiasts, AHS fans, and ambitious property buyers alike flock to the Buckner Mansion to admire the architecture and catch a glimpse of poor old Josephine.

Mardi Gras traffic only allowed a drive-by, unfortunately

          Though I had no idea what Mardi Gras in NOLA entailed, I was so grateful to discover southern hospitality, amazing food, and ritual transformation, all steeped in fascinating history. If I were to celebrate Mardi Gras in NOLA again (which is something I definitely plan on doing), I would arrive a week or two before Fat Tuesday to experience more parades from the other prominent Krewes. I would also reserve a spot on a ghost tour because WOW this city has some dark lineages. I did not have nearly enough time to explore all this city has to offer. However, my first Fat Tuesday celebration was an absolute riot, and it’s all thanks to Payton and the friendly people of N’awleans.

11 Quirks of Seattle

          Hello friends! As I am sure many of you know, I recently moved to Seattle, and it has taken every single one of my feeble brain cells to figure out this city. I traveled a bit before my move, but I’ll write about those adventures later—for now, I am completely enamored with the Pacific Northwest, and I thought it would be fun to share the first eleven quirks I noticed about this city.

Ever-Greenery (+ Pesky Ivy)

            I was immediately struck by it on the drive up from Colorado. My Northwest-bound route was mainly monotonous: desert and dry shrub throughout Western Colorado, Northern Utah, Western Wyoming, and Southern Idaho. But as I wound down dark roads through Eastern Washington with a Uhaul trailer in tow, I found myself suddenly enveloped in lush forest. A light rain greeted me, alluding to the countless warnings I had received about Washington state’s climate. The towering hemlocks, firs, and cedars welcomed me in a way that Colorado’s flora never had.

            After being here for a few months, the greenery continues to be the most comforting aspect of West Coast city life. I am incredibly fortunate to live half a block away from a forested park with over five miles of trails—my urban oasis with a surprising amount of foraging potential. I won’t even get into the insane greenery I saw on my recent trip to the Olympic Peninsula, which shall be a whole article of its own.

            A good chunk of Seattle’s greenery comes from English ivy, which is quaint & cute cottage-core vibes….until you realize that it’s a rampantly invasive plant to this region. It takes over everything. I guess it’s good for the wildlife, though, because the ivy patch in front of my apartment is home to a family of large rats. Super fun for my cats, not so much for me.

Go Huskies!

          Besides my unsatiable thirst for exploration, I was drawn to Seattle by a very exciting development: my acceptance to graduate school! Starting in the fall, I will study comparative religion and women & gender studies in South Asia. I am looking forward to building on my undergraduate research in Hindu women’s rituals and incorporating my new studies into my Yoga practice. The best part is that I’ve been offered a Foreign Language and Area Studies fellowship to complete this degree in exchange for studying Hindi (which I was going to do anyway).

            I am also unbelievably lucky to have found an apartment near the university district in Seattle, so I live within walking distance of campus, and I am constantly surrounded by college culture. Though I don’t start classes until the end of September, I can tell that University of Washington (colloquially known as U Dub) students are full of pride in their school, and I am extremely optimistic about the faculty I will be working with during my two-year program.

Skyler and our cat, Big Handsome, settling in to our new apartment near University District, Seattle.

Land Acknowledgements

          Seattle occupies the traditional land of almost thirty indigenous American tribes, and the people here seem more aware of our continued colonization than most other places I’ve lived. I encounter land acknowledgments to the Coast Salish people and the Duwamish tribe almost everywhere I go, from natural landmarks to touristy urban destinations. I especially appreciate the ones at Snoqualmie Falls, which emphasize that sacred sites and resources were stolen from Indigenous Americans and commodified by colonial settlers. The Snoqualmie (meaning “moon” in Salish) region encompasses vast fertile valleys and a 268-foot waterfall, which was once coveted by indigenous Americans as a source of natural abundance and the birthplace of many formative myths. These myths speak of the Moon Transformer, Snoqualm, who birthed fire and trees from the sky unto the earth. The Moon Transformer receives offering from the falls’ water, so the land surrounding the falls served as ceremonial grounds and burial sites for the Snoqualmie people.

            Unfortunately, the Snoqualmie land was settled by pioneers in the 1850’s, whereupon it was pillaged by loggers and later channeled into an underground power plant. Those hydroelectric generators still exist and operate today, appropriating the sacred energy of the Falls to provide electricity for surrounding areas. The natural marvel of Snoqualmie Falls, along with the power plant, continue to draw hordes of tourists that impact the remaining members of these indigenous tribes, as well as land back efforts.

          While hiking at the falls, I was grateful to see plaques that were truthful about the power plant’s ugly history. Yet, written statements seem a feeble consolation for the native peoples’ loss of land, resources, and rituals. I wonder whether these acknowledgements are backed by tangible social action, and I must ask myself how I can make reparations to these indigenous Americans as I reside in their territory.

Water Water Everywhere

          The wonder—and sometimes the terror—of living in Seattle is being surrounded by formidable bodies of water. Flanked by the Puget Sound to the West, Lake Washington to the East, and Lake Union in the North, there is never a shortage of water activities. I haven’t spent much time on the water since my summer in Tennessee, so I am soaking up my proximity to the ocean. Each morning, the tide recedes, making way for my newest hobby, the sister science to foraging in the woods: tidepooling!!! So far I have spotted anemones, starfish, hermit crabs, harbor seals, and sea otters all within thirty minutes of my apartment. I have never been an ocean girl, but I have a feeling I’m about to become one.

            Lake Washington and Lake Union teem with wildlife, as well. Kaleidoscopes of swallowtail butterflies perch on the sandy beaches (fun fact: a group of butterflies is called a kaleidoscope!) while beavers build dams and Great Blue Herons dive for fish in the clear waters. I’ve been channeling my inner duck when I paddleboard through swampy enclaves.

Seattle Freeze

          Okay, ouch. People warned me about this phenomenon before I made the big leap, but I wasn’t prepared for the honesty of the expression. “Seattle Freeze” refers to the tendency of Seattle residents to be cold, distant, and unwilling to make new friends. This disconnect has obviously been challenging for me as I attempt to find my people in this city. Seattleites aren’t downright mean—no, the freeze manifests in subtle ways, like the total rarity of smiles shared between passersby. The grocery clerk never asks me how my day is going, which isn’t an earth-shattering tragedy in and of itself, but my inability to connect with strangers has certainly hindered my transition. I’m used to the welcoming warmth of Coloradoans and the sickly-sweet hospitality of Midwesterners, so I’m curious to know why Seattle hardens everyone here. I fear I’ll succumb to the freeze if I stay here too long!

Skyler has been helping me ward off the Freeze!

Native Fruit

          My mom grew up in Tacoma, Washington and I fondly remember picking cherries from a tree in the backyard of her childhood home. Growing up in sub-desert Colorado, though, I always imagined that a backyard cherry tree was an unusual luxury, even in Washington. I could not have been more wrong. In hunting for mushrooms, I accidentally stumbled into the cherished PNW tradition of native berry picking. It was impossible to ignore—as I reached through thick brush to harvest an oyster mushroom, my hand met with a bushel of orange berries. I soon came to identify these enticing morsels as salmonberries, edible native fruits that have long been enjoyed by indigenous tribes. The Salish people ate the young plant shoots and the berries (which resemble salmon roe) with dried salmon, hence the name.

          Once I worked up the courage to put my fruit identification to the test (by eating them and not dying), I discovered that the PNW is rife with streetside pickins. I have since found native thimbleberries, huckleberries, salal berries, raspberries, grapes, cherry plums, and blackberries—OH, the BLACKBERRIES. They are everywhere. The native species, rubus ursinus, is harder to spot as it grows close to the ground, but the invasive and incredibly noxious Himalayan blackberry has taken over every street corner and city park. While most edible berries have now gone out of season, the Himalayan blackberries are just now starting to ripen. I plan to take this opportunity to perfect my jam recipe. I have also honed my ability to spot poisonous berries, including snow berries and deadly nightshade. A tip for foragers across the world: 99% of aggregate cluster berries (like blackberries and raspberries) are edible, so munch away!

Cultivated Fruit

          Finding free fruit on the streets is a novel thrill for me, but I have also noticed that people in Washington are crazy about their fruit in general, even the non-native cultivars. I moved to Seattle in time for peak fruit season, July through September, during which grocery stores and farmer’s markets boast fresh, locally grown peaches, apples, cherries, and numerous other stone fruits. If you’re lucky, you can catch the fruit vendor just after his daily delivery and enjoy divinely juicy nectarines that were picked and shipped from Yakima that same morning! Rainier cherries are the main summer craze, hailing from Washington state and named for the region’s beloved glaciated peak, Mount Rainier.  I never would have guessed that two species of red cherry could combine to produce a new fruit that makes every other fruit’s taste and aesthetic value pale in comparison. Nonetheless, I have hopped on the Washington fruit bandwagon, and I now indulge in melt-in-your-mouth white peaches every morning for breakfast.

Pike Place Market, the quintessential place to buy fresh Yakima fruit. The market is traditionally known for seafood, but in the summer, vendors stand in the walkways and slice fresh chunks of nectarines for passerby to sample.

Daily Commute

          I knew Seattle traffic was dreadful, but nothing could have prepared me for the haphazard road infrastructure, which necessarily accommodates odd land shapes formed by surrounding bodies of water. The specifics of the driving terrors I have encountered are not important, but I have finally drawn a conclusion as to why driving is so frightening here. I have driven through more than half of the states in the U.S.., and I find the middle states to be the easiest to navigate. Driving in East coast states like New York and New Jersey can be intimidating due to urgency and aggression on the road, while driving through the American South can be mind-numbingly slow and boring.

          Somehow, driving through Seattle encompasses the worst aspects of both extremes. For some downfalls, I question the urban developers—why do they hate turn lanes? Why don’t they understand what signage is relevant? Why is the speed limit 25 MPH on every road? Most of the time, however, I ask myself about the people that commute in this city. Drivers, pedestrians, and cyclists alike seem to have very little regard for their own fragile lives. Suffice to say that my Yoga practice has become even more integral to my daily commute.

I pass the Japanese Garden in the Washington Park Arboretum every day on my commute to work. 

Ethnic Cuisine

          Seattle boasts diasporas from many nationalities (namely from Asia and Pacific islands), so it comes as no surprise that the cuisine of the city is likewise diverse. Yes, there are espresso shops on every corner, but no one talks about the boba tea shops, of which there are twice as many. Indian food, Ethiopian, Thai, Vietnamese, Mexican, Italian…I could go on. If you want it, you’ll find it in Seattle. I haven’t done too much foodie exploration yet, but I do enjoy living near Din Tai Fung, a tantalizing dim sum restaurant in University Village.

The Rain (or lack thereof)

          Ah, yes, the dreaded Seattle gloom. Before my move, I met so many people who lived in the PNW and moved away because they couldn’t stand the climate. Some emphatically advised me to get a “Happy Lamp,” while others just shook their heads and said sadly, “you’ll never see the sun.” I heeded their forecasts and bought a light therapy lamp off Facebook Marketplace as soon as I got into the city. The previous owner told me she was moving out-of-state: “somewhere sunnier,” she bragged, referring to Colorado. Indeed, Colorado boasts 300 days of sunshine, which makes even the coldest, snowy winter mornings feel bright and beautiful. In the meantime, Seattle was prophesied to be dreary all winter without even a good powder day to ease the pain.

          I worried that constant overcast skies would affect my mood and my spiritual practice, but I came at a good time. The daily rains subsided in early June, and since then we’ve had an *uncomfortably* dry and hot summer. Historically, Seattle summers haven’t even been hot enough to warrant air conditioning in private residences. It’s temperate here year-round, traditionally with highs in the 80’s and lows in the 30’s (Fahrenheit). Sadly, climate change has brought heat waves over the city for the past few years, and this summer was no different. For two weeks in mid-July, temperatures passed 100 degrees every day, and Sky and I scrambled to keep our cats and reptiles cool with only a couple of fans.

       I know I’ll regret saying this come January, but I’m looking forward to the Seattle rain that I was promised. We’ve had the occasional morning shower, but the lack of moisture is seriously impeding my current favorite hobby, which is of course…

MUSHROOMS!!!

          My love for mycology was undoubtedly the #1 driving factor behind my West coast relocation. Sky and I have been getting more confident in our identification abilities recently, so we were itching to test out our skills in new territory. The timing of our move was perfect because we had an excellent month of spring mushrooms before the forest dried out. The park near our apartment has proved fruitful for smooth puffballs (edible), scarlet bonnets (inedible, but stunningly beautiful), and fly agarics (poisonous and psychoactive). My favorite spot so far is an adorable mossy clearing that flushes with oysters (edible and choice!) almost every week. Though we haven’t found much during the dry season, September is sure to bring enough moisture for the mycelium to fruit. I’m hoping for chanterelles this autumn!

          Have you noticed the trend in my observations? I’m not sure that I’m cut out for city living…driving is unpredictable, a dark winter is coming, and let’s be real—shit’s expensive up here. Unsurprisingly, nature has been my saving grace. Whenever I need to escape this urban enigma, I can venture into the woods or hop on my paddleboard.

          My Yoga practice has also been integral for my sanity throughout this wild transition, and I am proud to announce that I began teaching at a new studio called Shefa Yoga Roosevelt! I am so grateful to have this studio and community as I get oriented in my new life. I also adore having students who are receptive when I share traditional aspects of Yoga such as mythology, philosophy, and subtle body attunement. If you happen to be in the Seattle area and would like to practice with me, I teach on:

Tuesdays @ 6:00 AM

Saturdays @ 4:30 PM

Sundays @ 9:30 AM

            I get one buddy pass for each class, so please reach out if the drop-in cost ($25) hinders your ability to practice. I would love to move and breathe with you, as well as hear your thoughts about Seattle. What did you notice first? Do you like the rain? What’s your least favorite thing, and why is it the driving?

          Thanks for reading, and stay tuned for more on yoga & adventures in Seattle!

Honorary Mention: St. John's Wort, a beautiful flowering plant that grows everywhere here. Used medicinally in many cultures for thousands of years, clinical trials now prove this herb's effectiveness as a mild antidepressant. 

16.5 Things to See & Do in Central New Mexico

            We have reached the last chapter in my four-part road trip saga, and my final destination: New Mexico! I effectively procrastinated this article so long that I was forced to write it on the airplane—to a location which will be disclosed in the next article 😊 This is not to say, however, that New Mexico was not noteworthy. On the contrary, I found the state so lovely when I visited in May 2021 that I decided to return in November. I spent time in both Santa Fe and Albuquerque, and I have exactly sixteen and a half recommendations to share, should you find yourself in the area.

Santa Fe

          If, like me, you grew up listening to Broadway musical soundtracks, you might think of Santa Fe as the center of Bohemia, a mythical destination with powerful artistic allure. In Rent, Angel and Collins fantasize about leaving New York City for Santa Fe, singing “sunny Santa Fe would be nice!” And of course, no one can forget Jack Kelly of Newsies lamenting, “just a moon so big and yellow, it turns night right into day. Dreams come true in Santa Fe” in the famous song named after the city. Obviously, I played both songs on full blast on my drive into town.

            A spot of Santa Fe history before we proceed: this city boasts the oldest capitol city in the United States, as well as the oldest public building (La Palazza de Gobierno) and the oldest community celebration in the nation (La Fiesta de Santa Fe). New Mexican land transferred ownership a few times (Spain to Mexico to United States) before achieving statehood in 1912. Around that time, Anglo-Americans from the Eastern United States began to migrate to New Mexico, inspired by the expansive, breathtaking sceneries. These migrants decided to settle, creating Santa Fe’s reputation as a good place for artists to work and live. Santa Fe was viewed as “exotic” for its emphasis on indigenous art forms and its dry climate, which was thought to cure tuberculosis.  Art has always been central to the lives of Santa Fe inhabitants, from the days of the Spanish empire to the modern gallery scene. Today, Santa Fe is a major American tourist destination, with a thriving local art market that drives the city’s economy. The legacy of the native culture persists visibly in the art and architecture of the city, with unique zoning laws to preserve historic buildings such as traditional adobe houses in urban spaces. Basically, if you go to Santa Fe, go for the art!!

#1 Canyon Boulevard

          An outdoor shopping area with several streets lined with art galleries. The galleries are open weekdays, 9 am to 5 pm, so plan to spend a day there. I arrived later in the afternoon, so I only visited a handful of interior galleries, but there was a plethora of outdoor displays to behold. I took my time wandering the alleys and delighting in the colorful surprises around each corner. My absolute favorite was the wind sculpture garden at Wiford Gallery. I wound up there at sunset and it could not have been more enchanting.

#2 La Plaza

          The historic center of the city now plays host to a downtown area of restaurants, office buildings, museums, and you guessed it! More galleries! Some of these are open later than Canyon Boulevard, but you could still dedicate a whole day to perusing La Plaza’s unique architecture and selection of shops. You’ll walk right past the Palace of the Governor, as you pass the contemporary, upscale fine art galleries, but if you’re patient, street vendors will peddle their masterpieces to you at slightly more affordable rates. Besides, the streets are lined with sculptures and murals-you can get an eyeful without spending a dime!

#3 Los Museos (Museums)

          After the influx of Anglo-American immigrants in the early 1900s, the city of Santa Fe began to emphasize art culture and quickly opened a native art museum (New Mexico Museum of Art) to increase the momentum from tourism. Since then, the city has welcomed five more art museums, as well as several other museums dedicated to the cultural heritage and history of the city. I personally only had time to visit the IAIA Museum of Contemporary Native Arts, however the Georgia O’Keefe Museum and the Museum of International Folk Art are both internationally renowned. When I left, I vowed to return to visit all the museums I missed.

#4 House of Eternal Return

          YUSSS! Meow Wolf’s first ever permanent installation is housed in Santa Fe, and that should tell you all you need to know about this city as the Art Capital of the American West. Unless that would be Los Angeles. Anyway…you can read my full review of House of Eternal Return in my article on Immersive Art, but suffice to say that Meow Wolf’s humble origins still blows most immersive art exhibits out of the water. Unlike the newer exhibits, HoER is mainly sculpture based, taking attendees on a psychedelic adventure through a family’s home that is trapped between dimensions. I went by myself and spent four hours inside the exhibit, fully unpacking every element of the expansive narrative. I also made friends in there! If you want to go, plan your time accordingly.

#5 La Fiesta de Santa Fe

          La Fiesta de Santa Fe: An honorary mention, because I wasn’t in town at the right part of the year to witness this cultural festival, but I have studied it, and it’s a huge bucket list item for me. The festivities begin in the beginning of September and continue for about a week, including elaborate reenactments of the Spanish conquest, dance and theater performances, parades, and a thrilling, symbolic burning of a giant effigy named Zozobra. The entire fiesta is a celebration of the unity of the Pueblo and the Spanish cultures, and a dream ethnography for an anthropologist like me!

#6 The Flying Tortilla

          A Mexican American breakfast joint with fabulous chilaquiles (fried tortillas with tomato sauce and eggs) y chile rellenos vegetarianos (breaded poblano peppers stuffed with veggies and cheese)

#7 Café Castro

          A Mexican restaurant that boasted the most impressive array of vegetarian options I have ever seen! I opted for the tamales, which I have been craving since I gave up meat two years ago!

#8 Annapurna’s World Vegetarian Café

          A Santa Fe veggie staple, from what I understand. It’s known for its hearty, flavorful vegetarian cuisine from around the world, including Indian, Lebanese, and of course, New Mexican dishes. My uncle and I are both naturally inclined towards Indian food, so we enjoyed a sampling of dal (lentils), subzi (vegetable) curry, and rice. We ordered take out, so I can’t say much of the restaurant’s ambience….until I get to the Albuquerque section, and you’ll see why.

#9 Dale Balls Trail

          I hiked this trail system in early May and was enamored by the vibrant, unexpected color in the desert: brilliantly red cactus blooms, fuzzy pastel-colored lichens, and the occasional yellowing weed struggling to survive in the sand. I hiked to a height of 8500 feet where I happened upon 360 views- in one direction, Santa Fe’s low skyline, and in the other direction, arid landscapes as far as the eye could see.

#10 Bandelier National Monument

          Okay, this one is technically in the town of Los Alamos, New Mexico, about an hour outside of Santa Fe. This national monument preserves mesa and canyon landscapes that have been settled for over 1,000 years, first by the Ancestral Puebloans and then by Spanish colonizers. Adobe structures and cliff dwellings still stand within the park, and visitors are invited to climb the rocky crags to experience life in a cliffside. The weather was perfect in November—if you go during the summer, be sure to bring a hat and sunscreen as the walking trails are mostly unshaded.

Albuquerque

          Admittedly, Albuquerque never had the appeal that Santa Fe once had for me. I had always wanted to experience Santa Fe, my Mecca as a musical theater student. My uncle recently completed his PhD in Los Alamos, a nearby town, and I reached out to him about my visit, which was very spontaneous…as in the day before. By pure coincidence, he had moved to Santa Fe mere weeks before I wrote to him; he hosted me that weekend and the whole trip worked out beautifully and serendipitously.

          But when my playwriting colleagues from undergrad told me they were moving to Albuquerque, I wanted to ask, “why?!”  Beckie and Brayden, some of my closest college friends, desperately needed a change of scenery a few months into the pandemic. I promised them I would come to visit, and I made it the grand finale of my cross-country road trip. Nevertheless, I enjoyed my time in Albuquerque, and found it to be a quirky, interesting place where I would like to spend more time.

          In my experience, Albuquerque contrasts Santa Fe in many ways. While Santa Fe is the state’s capital and cultural center, Albuquerque has served as an important trading center since its founding in 1706, serviced by several major railroads, airlines, and highways. The city has a markedly more urban feel to it, despite being bounded by the Sandia Mountains to the north, the Manzano Mountains to the East, lava fields to the West, and the Rio Grande River through the center. One of Albuquerque’s major draws is its low cost of living compared to other major cities in the Southwest, and especially when compared to Santa Fe.

#11 Anodyne

          A relaxed billiard hall/ pub on Central Ave, in a prime spot downtown. I enjoyed a margarita; I’ve heard they also serve perfectly cooked tacos. I’m not the best at pool, but I was enthused to discover a modest array of pinball machines in the back of the dimly lit establishment. Pinball has kinda been my thing recently—more on that later—so it really made my night to shoot a few rounds on The Addams Family machine!

#12 Effex

          As a raver, I’ve seen my fair share of clubs across the country (and even across the globe). Each has its own merits, and some have none (ahem, Skully’s in Columbus). With Effex, I was most impressed by the variety in music and the rowdiness of the crowd. When we arrived at around 10 pm, I watched four girls fall down the stairs within five minutes of each other. Everyone had gone all out with their costumes, and the highlight of the night was easily when Bohemian Rhapsody began to play and a spotlight illuminated a man next to us who turned out to be Freddie Mercury In the Flesh!!! With his wife beater and mustache, he was indistinguishable from the real Freddie, and the entire crowd egged him on as he performed a dramatic rendition of the legendary six-minute song. We ended up befriending Freddie Mercury—he was a fun dude!

Effex

#13 Salt & Board

          An intimate, upscale charcuterie restaurant that my friend, Brayden, proudly manages. He treated us to a lovely night of sweet and salty samplings, with my favorites being the spicy mustard and the array of soft cheeses. My tip for charcuterie dining—pay attention when your server tells you what’s on the board. I know Brayden was frustrated when we asked him what everything was for the fourth time, but some foods are more self-explanatory than others, okay?!

#14 Vinaigrette

          A gourmet salad bistro in Old Town. Of course, restaurants with several good vegetarian options will always earn my vote, but this one really captivated me with its cozy nature-based aesthetic. At the beginning of November, it was still warm enough for us to sit on the patio and soak up some desert rays. I was utterly amused by the succulents on each table that had grown so vigorously they had cracked their clay pots. The food was delicious as well, with excellent service.

#15 Watrous Coffee House

          A spacious, modern coffee shop with huge windows for ample natural light. I’m no coffee connoisseur, so I make no remarks in that regard, but I was very pleased with my pastry and *the vibes*

#15.5 Annapurna’s World Vegetarian Café

          My friend Brayden raved about this place, but I never connected the dots! The cafe building hosts an Ayurvedic cooking school, and the exterior murals depict Shiva, the Hindu destroyer god, so naturally my interest was heightened. However, I didn’t realize that this was another location of the restaurant in Santa Fe until months later! So, I tried the food in Santa Fe (amazing) and I experienced the environment in Albuquerque (also amazing) and therefore my overall review of the chain is this: amazing! BUT to be fair, I think a second location should only be considered ½ of a destination.

Annapurnas

#16.5 Pino Trail

          A relatively flat yet scenic trek through the foothills of the Sandia Mountain Wilderness area. My playwriting friends were particularly fond of this trail for its proximity to their apartment. On this hike, I was drawn to the textures of the desert. Bushels of cactus spines appeared fuzzy and wild grasses contorted into tiny curlicues. We stopped hiking after a mile or so to attempt (with varying levels of success) to climb a boulder. Eventually, we all ended up on rocks and snapped some cute shots.  

          There you have it: 16.5 things to do and see in central New Mexico! I found both Santa Fe and Albuquerque to be exciting cities with tons of engaging activities, from indulging my inner foodie to marveling at the natural sceneries. Of course, it helped that my friends and family in the state are positively wonderful people. New Mexico is a big state; there’s plenty I haven’t seen and for that reason, I will surely be back within the next few years. Carlsbad Caverns, I’m coming for you!

Country Roads

            Hello, friends! I apologize for being MIA…I have been applying for *grad school*. I won’t say too much, lest I jinx my chances at admission, but I am very much looking forward to moving to a new state and embarking on this new academic adventure. Now that the application deadline has passed, I can get back to chronicling my cross-country road trip last fall! Oh yes, we have several more destinations to cover.

            We left off in Washington D.C., where I speed ran the National Mall and was left craving several more days in our nation’s capital. I left my parking spot in the city (that garage had started to feel very homey!) and made the short drive across state borders into Virginia. I camped in my car that evening, and the following day brought new adventures of the national park variety!

Shenandoah National Park: Virginia

            On my days in the national parks, I got in the habit of starting early at the visitor center. I picked up a map, enjoyed the views from the accessible scenic overlook, and enlisted a ranger’s help to figure out which parts of the park would be best for mushroom foraging. Unsurprisingly, the ranger had to ask another ranger, and then another, until they all eventually admitted that none of them had any idea. But they pointed me to their favorite trails, which was a good start.

            I ended up on a quiet wooded trail that eventually led me downhill to a gentle creek. I didn’t have much luck in my fungus hunt until I moved to sit at the edge of the water. As I turned to step over a tree’s exposed roots, I discovered that its North-facing side was entirely covered in fungus! I spent a long moment sitting on a fallen log and admiring the forest before heading back to my car.

            I pulled off at a picnic area and broke out my camp stove for the first time on my journey. I prepared a simple meal of gnocchi and red sauce—the ingredients for which I had saved from Trader Joe’s in Columbus. As I enjoyed my lunch, I found a great deal of amusement in watching a toddler boy attempt to escape his parents by sprinting into the woods.

            Then, I took a peaceful, winding drive down Skyline Drive, the road that runs 105 miles North to South along the crest of the Blue Ridge mountains. I pulled off at a scenic overlook near the middle of the park and camped out for a few hours to watch the sunset. Upon awkwardly crawling out of my Subaru’s moon roof, the top of my car offered stunning views of the Blue Ridge mountains, as well as a very good fluffy boy. I sat there long enough to discover that this little dog’s name was Leonardo Davinci, and that Davinci was not, in fact, the original inventor’s last name, but rather a notator of his hometown (da Vinci, meaning “of Vinci,” a city in Italy). I also befriended Leo’s owners and had an all-around lovely time watching the sun illuminate the hills in brilliant hues of reds and oranges.

New River Gorge National Park: West Virginia

            The next day, I was on to another national park—the one most recently added to America’s roster! Having only been named a national park in 2020, much of New River Gorge remains private property. A railroad runs straight through the park, sectioning off natural landmarks in ways that are occasionally confusing and frustrating to navigate. As became my tradition, I asked a ranger to recommend a trail for fungus hunting and was sent to a short trail just across the highway from the visitor center. ‘Twas a lovely hike, but not so fruitful for my mushroom endeavors. I then wound down the highway, taking a discrete side road that led me many miles into the hills and away from cell service. The drive was somewhat disorienting; the views were beautiful, but at any given moment, I had no idea whether I was ambling about on federally owned land or if I was accidentally trespassing on someone’s private property. I did eventually make it to my destination: a trailhead/ picnic area/ stunning, secluded beachfront to the New River and its respective gorge. I recycled leftovers from the day before to prepare lunch out of the back of my car, then walked down to the beach and had the whole stretch of river to myself. It was absolutely one of the highlights of my trip.

            After lunch, I followed the trailhead that led away from my private beach. It led me on a gander through the woods along the river, and I came to appreciate why this Appalachian oasis had been deemed one of our country’s natural treasures. I had been to West Virginia a few times prior to this trip, and admittedly I had come to view the state as unforgivably strange. Even still, my time in New River Gorge was incredibly introspective, awe-inspiring, and I would go back in a heartbeat.

Spiritual Materialism: Asheville, North Carolina

            Night 3 of car camping in a Walmart parking lot completed, I set off for my most anticipated destination. I was greeted by Jess, one of my friends from when I lived at a marina in Tennessee. She had been dying to show me around Asheville ever since I expressed interest when we met in the summer of 2020, and her hype did not disappoint! The city gave me big Santa Fe vibes, with hordes of local coffee shops, craft breweries, and hippie dippy stores lining every street for blocks. We began the day with breakfast at Early Girl Eatery, where I indulged in spinach and potato cakes. Half of the menu was plant-based, excitingly, so I simply must go back to try all the options I spurned the first time.

            We spent the better part of the morning and early afternoon exploring all the shops, from imported metaphysical goods to local artisan crafts. I’m typically not much of a souvenir gal, but even I was tempted by Asheville’s boho chic selection—I came away with a tree of life necklace, a vintage mushroom poster, some stickers, and a print for my goddess art collection. It took a looooottttt of willpower to not splurge on a cat tarot deck and a necklace fashioned from the skull of a tiny woodland creature. Inevitably, we closed out the afternoon with an adult beverage at Bhramari Brewing. I quite enjoyed the time spent chatting with Jess, sampling my beer flight, and ogling at the bastardizations of Hindu gods depicted in murals on the brewery’s open patio.

            I will say, I think Asheville has a lot of spiritual spectacle and very little substance—similar to Santa Fe, at least in my opinion. I get the vibe that it was once a nice place for nature-oriented artists and spiritualists to live, but it has become so gentrified in recent years that those people can no longer afford to stay and draw inspiration from the breathtaking natural scenery. Besides a very persistent Hare-Krishna devotee who swindled us into buying several Prabhupada texts, I didn’t encounter any truly “hippie” beliefs or traditions. Just a lot of white folks bent on peddling their ‘spiritual’ materials—an oxymoron if I’ve ever written one.  Nevertheless, I liked catching up with Jess and taking a short break from my normal lifestyle, which is usually quite minimalistic.

Kittens and Beignets: Johnson City, Tennessee

            Jess lives a short drive away from Asheville in Johnson City, so I got to meet her roommate and her two cats, Echo and Love. Love was a tiny kitten when I visited—only 6 weeks old—and she took a liking to clambering on me in my sleep. I wasn’t mad. We also went to Babbette’s Coffee Shop one morning and I was delighted to see beignets on the menu. They were amazing, albeit a very messy car snack.

Great Smoky Mountains National Park:
Tennessee/ North Carolina

            As the most heavily trafficked National Park in the United States, the Great Smokies were naturally a priority on my journey down South. The Appalachian Mountains are an entirely different beast from the Rockies, but no less majestic. I was taken aback by the lush greenery in the park, how the entirety of each rolling hill was enveloped in rainbow vegetation as the trees underwent their autumnal transformations. It was certainly perfect timing to see the park.

            Again, I consulted a park ranger for help with my mycological quest, and for the first time, I found someone who knew what he was talking about! He recommended a short trail off Newfound Gap Road, where he claimed he had spotted a variety of shelf fungus. He did not lead me astray, as I saw a bounty of polypore mushrooms and turkey tails popping off the trees. This trail was a short stint of the Appalachian Trail, so I crossed paths with several hikers who were carrying impressive loads of gear and had clearly traveled long distances. It was so inspiring that I might have to go back and hike the whole thing one day 😉

            In the afternoon, I began the drive to the center of the park, to the highest point on the AT: Clingman’s Dome. I intended to do a bit more hiking to reach the summit, but just as I turned into the trailhead’s parking lot, a frightening grey cloud descended over the park. Ultimately, the rain only lasted for a few hours, but it was enough to deter me from the solo high elevation hike, especially because I lacked proper waterproof gear. I decided that the views from the car sufficed, and I drove through the cute little town of Gatlinburg on my way out of the park.

Hot Gossip: Knoxville, Tennessee

            Knoxville has a special place in my heart, as the biggest city close to where I lived in Tennessee. On our weekends off from our marina jobs, Payton and I used to drive down to Knoxville to enjoy the local restaurants and peruse the quaint downtown area. This time around, I was just stopping in for an afternoon to see my friend Taylor, whom I also worked with at the marina!

            Bubbly and cheerful as ever, Taylor met me at The Tomato Head, a soup and sandwich place with tons of vegetarian options. We caught up over lunch and she dished all the hot gossip from this year’s crew of servers at Shanghai (the marina we both worked at).

            Taylor had to head to work shortly thereafter, so I had some time to kill. I headed to the library at the University of Knoxville, where I posted up for several hours and got some work done. University libraries were my best friends on this trip—they’re one of the few places where people can sit for hours on end without being expected to buy anything. Plus, they are often open 24 hours!

Ceviche de Hongos: Chattanooga, Tennessee

            The next day, it was off to Chattanooga, along the Southern border of Tennessee. I reconnected with my friend Michaela, another of my coworkers from Shanghai Marina at Norris Lake. I first met up with her at a skate park, where we watched some of her friends play a field hockey game. Then we hit up a hip little bar and grill called State of Confusion. Their specialty was ceviche—for those who don’t know, ceviche is a coastal South American dish that uses acidic citrus juices to “cook” raw seafood, culminating in a fresh and flavorful fish salad. It was one of my favorites when I lived in Yucatan. I was downright stunned to see ceviche de hongos (mushroom ceviche) on State of Confusion’s menu. Two of my favorite things, combined in a way I had ever seen before! The dish was served in an oversized margarita glass and far exceeded every one of my expectations.

            Michaela had to work the following day, so I took myself on a tour of downtown Chattanooga. I walked through Coolidge Park, the city’s riverfront hang-out spot, and admired the water fountains and stone frog statues. As I ambled into the shopping area, I became enamored with the sidewalk decorations: gold plated footsteps arranged to emulate the step patterns of different dance forms. How fun, right? I ended up at Stone Cup Café, where I enjoyed a coffee, a scone, and peaceful riverside views.

Lookout Mountain: Georgia

            On my final evening in Tennessee, Michaela took me for one last adventure, which turned out to be across the border in Georgia. We drove up the side of Lookout Mountain, then hiked a short distance to the summit. At the top, cliffs dropped off at steep angles, revealing a stunning panorama of the Tennessee Valley. We sat for a long moment on the rocks, watching the sunset. We also got to witness an engagement photo shoot atop the cliffs, conducted remotely via drone. I was impressed by the photographer’s maneuvering skills, and I wish I could find that couple to see how the photos turned out!

            I spent one more night with Michaela and her cat, Lacey, before setting off again. As lovely as it was to see my old friend, I must admit it was quite the honor to meet her cat. Lacey was twenty years old. Almost as old as me. She was riddled with medical issues from her old age. One such issue was arthritic hips, which caused her to hover uncomfortably without ever fully sitting down. Instead, she would just slowly lower her chin as you petted her, ever grateful for the attention. She was also a bit…out of it because of an accidental poisoning in her youth. She would go to her litter box and simply stand in it, staring at the wall, seemingly using the litter under her paws as her own personal Zen garden. I have missed Lacey dearly ever since leaving Chattanooga.

A Random Coffee Shop in Nowhere, Alabama

            Alabama was not a destination on my trip, nor did it become one. However, I did decide to drive south out of Chattanooga, which meant I had a brief stint through rural Alabama. I decided to stop at a random coffee shop on my morning journey, and I really wish I hadn’t. I am going to write this next section in play format, because that’s the best way I know to convey this baffling experience.

AT RISE: A quaint Southern coffee shop. KAYA enters and approaches the counter.

KAYA: Hi! Could I please get an iced mocha?

BARISTA (Monotone): Sure, I can get that for you.

Beat.

KAYA: Could I also have a bagel, please?

BARISTA (Monotone): Sure, I can get that for you.

BARISTA produces a bag of bagels from below the register. He opens the bag, retrieves one bagel with his bare hand, then offers it to KAYA. KAYA reluctantly takes the bagel.

KAYA: Uh…do you have like a little tub of cream cheese to go with it?

BARISTA (Monotone): Sure, I can get that for you.

BARISTA produces an 8 oz tub of cream cheese from fridge behind him. He sets it on the counter in front of KAYA.

KAYA: Uh…

BARISTA: Oh!

BARISTA produces a metal spoon. He hands it to KAYA. KAYA begins to use the spoon to awkwardly spread cream cheese on the bagel she is holding with her bare hand.

BARISTA rings KAYA out. KAYA pays.

KAYA: I’m gonna run to the bathroom, be back for my coffee in a minute.

KAYA goes to the bathroom.

KAYA returns from the bathroom. BARISTA is still standing in the same spot.

BARISTA: Did you want ice in your iced mocha?

KAYA: ….yes, please.

BARISTA (Monotone): Sure, I can get that for you.

BARISTA prepares coffee and gives it to KAYA. KAYA leaves coffee shop as fast as possible. KAYA leaves Alabama as fast as possible.

Hot Springs National Park: Arkansas

            Hot Springs was the final National Park on my itinerary, and it was so unlike the other National Parks I had been to that I seriously doubted that I was in the right place. My navigation landed me in a parking garage in the center of Hot Springs, Arkansas, which is not a nature preserve at all, but rather, a small tourist town. I walked past a number of souvenir shops before arriving at the visitor center, which turned out to be an old bathhouse and museum.

            Apparently, water from these hot springs were believed to have healing properties in the early 20th century, and they were used for various spa treatments. However, these treatments were not administered by soaking in the natural springs, as I anticipated. Large, lavish bathhouses were built in this town to entice wealthy White guests into luxurious spa vacations. Black workers administered these treatments, which ranged from foot soaks to full-body steams. The museum in the visitor center gave guests a picture of this scene, down to the antiquated equipment used in the spa. I slowly pieced together this information as I perused the exhibits, which utilized unsettling mannequins to reenact various scenes throughout the bathhouse.

            Besides the museum, guests to this national park can also stroll up and down Fountain Street to view the selection of bathhouses. There were eight in total, several of which remain open to the public. Unfortunately, I did not get to experience the healing water itself, as I did not make a spa reservation in time. I did, however, walk behind the bathhouses at the suggestion of a park ranger. I found myself on a nature trail, heading up to a mountain tower at the top of the hill. The tower had decent vistas, but I was still completely puzzled as to why this town is considered a National Park (as opposed to a National Historic Site).

Carrie Underwood’s Hometown: Checotah, Oklahoma

            This one is an honorary mention. I did not stop here, but I was absolutely thrilled to drive through Checotah. I have long been a fan of Carrie Underwood, and I grew up singing the song off her debut album, “I Ain’t in Checotah Anymore.” As I drove through rural Oklahoma, I recognized all the landmarks mentioned in the song, like Eufala Lake! It was a fun little nod to my childhood and my long-lost love for country music.

            I was a bit wary of venturing into the American South alone—after all, I wasn’t familiar with the region, and I had heard plenty of cryptic warnings (“if you hear banjos, run!”). In the end, though, I didn’t run into any trouble, and I was grateful to explore the natural beauty in this part of the country. It was wonderful to see so many old friends, and I look forward to exploring the Appalachian Mountains a great deal more in my future adventures!

Holi Pilgrimage

            Of all the Hindu festivals celebrated throughout South Asia, Holi is by far the most well-known globally. Every March, children and elderly alike gather in the streets to toss colored powders and celebrate the turning of the seasons.  The result is visually striking—smiling communities and sacred sites drenched in every hue of the rainbow. When I traveled to India in the Spring of 2019, I knew that the Festival of Colors would be an event to remember, but I had absolutely no idea what to expect.

            I lived in Hyderabad, Telangana during my time in India. As the fifth largest city in the subcontinent, Hyderabad was well connected to other major cities via airways and railroads, and my study abroad group did a fair bit of interstate travel using these methods. However, much of India remains rural and largely disparate from urban centers. According to a census conducted in 2020, more than 65% of India’s population still lives in rural areas. These areas are not so easily accessible by the convenient, direct forms of transportation that I am used to.

            One such area is Vrindavan, Uttar Pradesh in North India. Mentioned in many Hindu texts as the childhood home of the God Krishna, this city has rich mythological significance. Krishna is the 8th avatar of Vishnu, the preserver deity in the Hindu holy trinity (trimurti). He is the god of love, protection, compassion, and he features prominently in the Bhagavad Gita. This text is excerpted from the Hindu epic, the Mahabharata, and serves as a foundation for devotional Yoga practices. It is standard reading for Yogis, just as the Holy Bible is for Christians and the Qur’an is for Muslims. The festival Holi celebrates Krishna’s divine love for his devotees, his kingdom, and especially his consort, Radha. The pair (commonly abbreviated to, simply, Krishna Radha) represent the union of masculine and feminine energies, the cosmic combination of spirit and material, of reality and illusion, the complete constitution of the universe. After puja, or worship, of the two deities, devotees celebrate their union by smearing themselves with color. Nowhere is this practice more vibrant than Vrindavan, the historical setting of Krishna’s notorious romances.

            Naturally, I thought, what better place to experience Holi for the first time than in the district where it all began? Georgia, my roommate from Ohio University, was studying in Thailand at the time, so she planned to meet me in Vrindavan. We each recruited some friends to join us, and we booked our plane tickets. The gang coming from Hyderabad consisted of my friends Jonny, Allison, Kelly, Hunter, and myself. The Bangkok crew included Georgia, JJ, Ejayah, and Celine. Little did we know that the travel to and from the festival would amount to a religious experience in and of itself!

            The first leg of our journey was an Uber. We routinely ordered Ubers to our hostel on the Hyderabad Central University campus. Admittedly, we also routinely encountered issues with Indian Uber, but it was our main mode of transport out of campus. We had a 7 am flight to catch, so I ordered an Uber ahead of time to arrive at 4 am. In the dark of the early morning, we gathered soundlessly in the lobby with our strategically packed backpacks. We waited. And we waited. No Ubers arrived, and we began to panic. No one was awake; no one would accept our last-minute request.  

            Just as we had accepted the inevitability of missing our flight, a silver SUV pulled up in front of the hostel gates. We piled in without asking too many questions. This tardiness should have been the first indicator of divine influence in our travels. Later, an inspection of my Uber reservation would reveal that our vehicle had been cancelled due to lack of availability. Somewhat miraculously, our chauffeur had been hired to transport an entirely different group to the airport. He had mistakenly arrived a day early and was lucky to find us waiting for him.

            We made it to the Hyderabad airport just in the nick of time to have our bags x-rayed and our boarding passes approved. We rode an airport bus onto the tarmac to board a plane destined for Delhi, the nearest major city to Vrindavan. Our flight was rather uneventful, but Georgia’s group was not so fortunate—they had booked a Thailand-based budget airline called NokScoot, which resulted in a series of strange events that they recounted to us later. First, they nearly missed their flight due to an unannounced departure change. Somehow, a NokScoot employee located them in the airport to alert them that their plane was about to leave. Then, after boarding the plane, they were surprised to find that all the other passengers seemed to know one another, and none of them seemed to want to stay in their assigned seats. 

            After witnessing a takeoff game of musical chairs, Georgia and JJ tried to escape the unyielding attention of a man who kept hopping seats until he ended up in the same row as them. Halfway through the flight, a persistent “ding-dong” sound began to emanate from the plane. Upon asking a flight attendant, they learned that a passenger had fallen asleep on his call button, and the attendants either could not or would not wake him to silence the noise. NokScoot Airlines has since been liquidated, leaving us to wonder about this odd flight experience for all of eternity.

            The Hyderabad gang landed in Delhi at 10 am, but our voyage was far from over. We hopped an underground rail that connected the farthest terminals of the massive Delhi airport to one another. Whether we even needed to ride this train, we’re still not sure. That said, we ended up in the wrong part of the airport—rail maps were relentlessly confusing, and the staff seemed to have no idea how to direct us. Panic began to set in again as we realized we had less than an hour to catch our bus. We made the collective decision to abandon the Delhi Metro and instead flagged down a rickshaw driver just outside the airport.

            Negotiating rates with rickshaw drivers was generally challenging given our…ahem… aggressively white appearance. I struggled to communicate prices with my beginner Hindi, and this task was made no less difficult by the incredible vagueness of Indian addresses. Our bus tickets instructed us to meet at “Sec 37 Indian Oil Petrol Pump.” I had hoped that this location might become evident as we approached the cross-streets, but to no avail. Annoyed with our indecisiveness, the rickshaw driver dumped us in a plaza lined with rusty buses. He shrugged helplessly at us as he drove away.

            With less than 20 minutes until our bus departure time, we frantically compared our tickets to each bus’s sign. Several drivers stopped us along the way, insistent that we were looking for their bus, and there was truly no way of knowing which one we had purchased tickets for.  They all seemed to be going the same route, or at least, that’s what the drivers told us. At one point, Jonny completely gave up the chase and asked a stranger to light his bidi, a type of Indian cigarette. We stood around in a huddle and puffed for a bit. It seemed like the only thing we knew how to do in that moment.

            Indian bus drivers continued to hound us until we made the arbitrary decision to follow a man and his young child onto a bus. This one seemed as random as any of the others, but the driver accepted our tickets and allowed us to sit, so we did so. At first, we each had our own seat along the back row. At each stop, however, more and more people piled on. About an hour in, we were shoulder-to-shoulder, sitting eight people in a row designed for five. 

            The bus was unbearably muggy and warm, owing in no small part to the ever-growing crowd in the aisles. I tried to focus on breathing in fresh air through the 1 inch opening in the window. As we drove farther away from the city, however, the roads became increasingly rough, and dust soon began to infiltrate my airways, catalyzing a full-on asthma attack. I wheezed, crushed against the side of the bus, being tossed up and down by the poor suspension. After what felt like forever, I drifted into a restless sleep, my skull bouncing against the dirty window glass.

            I can’t have been asleep long because our ride was only meant to be three hours. I awoke suddenly to a concerned Indian man speaking to me in Hindi. My friends stared at me helplessly. Looking distinctly more native than the rest of my American group, I often found myself acting as an ambassador in a language I had only just begun to study. I knew right away that something was wrong—otherwise, I would not be fielding this stranger’s concerns.

            “Aapko kahaa ja ruhe hain?” (“where are you going?”) the man asked.

            “Vrindavan ko,” I mumbled, still disoriented from my reduced capacity to breathe. His eyes grew wide.

            “Vrindavan? Nahee.”

            After some back and forth, I deciphered the problem: we had missed our stop. The stranger alerted the bus driver, who pulled off to the side of the road rather hastily and allowed us to unload. I had no idea how all four of my travel buddies had missed the memo, even if the announcement had been in Hindi. Nor did I know how this strange man knew our mistake before we did. Nevertheless, we owed it to the stranger. Without his help, we would have ended up very lost in rural Uttar Pradesh.

            “Dhanyavaad!” I thanked him as the bus pulled away. Then, I realized another problem. Even with the stranger’s help, we were very lost in rural Uttar Pradesh. The bus had dropped us on the side of a quiet highway overpass, and none of us had cell service. There didn’t seem to be any towns or cities for miles.

            This time, we didn’t have a chance to panic, as our second guardian angel appeared out of thin air. He was a young man with piercing eyes and perfect English, which was even more miraculous than his inexplicable arrival. He helped us down a rocky hillside with our luggage, then hailed another rickshaw and sent us on our way. This rickshaw, our SEVENTH vehicle of the day, was a full-on party tuk-tuk, equipped with lavish décor, multi-colored string lights, and a bumping subwoofer. For the first time during our travels in India, the driver passed us the aux. We played our tunes obnoxiously loud as we careened down the bumpy rural roads, waving at amused pedestrians and trying our hardest to enjoy the thirteenth hour of our journey. Keep in mind that I was still holding a crippling asthma attack at bay.

            Around six pm, we rolled into the city of Vrindavan, where festivities for the eve of Holi were in full swing. Many residents had already brought out their colored powders and were enthusiastic to get the Americans in on the action. In our open-sided rickshaw, we were subject to rowdy hands reaching for our clothes and body parts. At one point, we came to a full stop in traffic and a man stepped out of his driver’s seat to take a picture of us. I tried to tell him no, in both English and Hindi, and he ignored me, coming closer and closer with each snapshot. Frankly, I was fed up. I slapped the phone out of his hand as we drove off. Not my proudest moment, but I was just beginning to learn how to establish physical boundaries with persistent Indian men.

            Shortly thereafter, the rickshaw driver pulled off to the side of the road and nodded to us to get out. We did, obediently, before realizing that we still had no idea where we were. Much like the bus stop, the address to our AirBnB was vague, accompanied by an equally vague photo of a townhome complex that seemed to match every building in the neighborhood. The rickshaw driver sped off as soon as he had cash in his hand, leaving us to wander the nondescript streets with our bulky luggage in tow.

            I’m not sure how long we wandered. All I know is that we eventually made it to our destination. Using the AirBnB listing, we located the neighboring complex, where was ran into our host, Parul. Parul kindly led us to our rental home, brought us tiffins of curry, and left us alone to rest and recover from the treacherous trek. Surprisingly, Georgia’s group had also made it to the AirBnB, and we were relieved to find them napping when we arrived. We hugged, introduced the two groups to one another, and swapped stories about our equally absurd adventures.

            Despite our difficulties, we came to realize that the long road to Vrindavan was half of the Holi experience. Pilgrimage plays a large role in many Hindu traditions; devotees travel long distances and endure the accompanying hardships to prove that their god’s grace is worth traversing the world for. Especially in a country like India, it requires great dedication to take time off work, travel to religious sites, and practice rites in a foreign community. The expedition itself is meant to bring the individual closer to god by challenging the convenience of the individual’s mode of worship.

            Indeed, we were awe-inspired by the perseverance required to reach Krishna’s childhood home, and even more grateful for the experience because we knew how fortunate we were to have made it. We felt that Krishna himself had sent avatars to guide us on our journey, for there was no way we could have succeeded without the help of the mysterious NokScoot employee, the strange man on the bus, or the kind English speaker on the highway overpass. To this day, I suspect divine influence when I think about the number of obstacles we overcame on the way.

            On the day of Holi, we played with a fervor akin to lifelong devotees of Krishna. We rode around in a caravan of rickshaws and gleefully threw colors in the air, all the while trying to avoid the dreaded buckets of street water which raucous boys aimed at our faces. We visited the major temples in the city, including Katyayani Shakti Peeth, a mythologically significant site that is rumored to house ringlets of hair from the Hindu Goddess herself. We drank bhaang (a sacramental yogurt drink made from cannabis leaves), ate chaat, and were merry.

            One part enjoyment, another part pure terror, Holi was the most fun we would never want to have again. I can’t say I would ever go back to Vrindavan for the infamous festival, but I would still recommend it to other travelers who are comfortable traveling long distances on a wide variety of vehicles. It was an unforgettable experience, one that undoubtedly strengthened my Yogic resolve. Personally, I am not a Krishna worshipper, but I experienced the cosmic love and connection during my Holi pilgrimage 😊

Non-Bacchanalian Things to Do in Vegas

         Does anyone else get the urge to escape?

         It’s not necessarily an impulse to vacation, per se. It’s more like an overwhelming boredom with your current location; a NEED to be invigorated by a change of scenery.

         I used to get this feeling ALL the time pre-COVID. And I, being the impulsive person that I am, would draft a hasty letter to my boss at the patent office.

hey Sara, I will be out of town this week. Hope you don’t need me ;-p

-Kaya 

         I’d pack up my car and simply leave. I hardly spent a weekend on my campus in Southeast Ohio during my senior year of college. I was too busy exploring the surrounding states while I could! It’s much harder to escape now that I have a job that relies on my being there in person, and now that I live in Colorado. There is plenty to see here, but it’s at least a two-hour drive in any direction to cross the border. And because of all that, I find myself getting antsy.

         A few weeks ago, my three-day weekend coincided with that Frontier “80% off all flights” email. I couldn’t resist. I hopped a plane to Las Vegas.

         I spent a lot of my childhood in Vegas with my grandparents, so I must admit that the flashy splendor of the Strip has long since wore off for me. I even did the whole night club- gambling excursion on my 21st and I was just not impressed. Admittedly, my idea of travel usually means engaging with the local culture and spending as little money as possible, and trips to Las Vegas are the exact opposite. The downtown area offers spectacular imitations of every other place in the world: Paris, New York City, Rome, Giza, Venice; all the while offering nothing unique of its own. Each casino is designed to dazzle you with a luxurious façade, then trap you inside a sleazy, expensive escape from reality.  

         All that said, Vegas has its gems, just like any other city. I had a very pleasant, peaceful trip this last time, so I decided to compile a list of things to do in Vegas that do not involve all-out Bacchanalian chaos.

Plants!

          My favorite thing to do on the Las Vegas Strip is free and completely open to the public 24/7. Tucked inside the Bellagio is a conservatory with live plant sculptures that change seasonally. I have visited the conservatory three times in the past eight months, so I have seen three different exhibits; the current exhibit for summer 2021 features a bamboo loft, a sparkling phoenix, and a stunning Daniel Popper statue. I first saw Popper’s work in Tulum, Mexico in 2020 and was positively thrilled to recognize another statue of his. 

Performance Arts!

          Besides the famous “exotic topless dancers,” there’s quite a diverse entertainment scene in Vegas. Over the years, I’ve seen everything from touring Broadway musicals to intimate comedy shows. By far, my  has been Zumanity, the Cirque Du Soleil performance hosted at the New York New York Hotel & Casino. I felt it really represented the spirit of Sin City: an impressive, erotic distraction with a few cheap thrills. If you don’t know me—I did my undergrad in playwriting and dramaturgy. So yeah, this theater history nerd was squealing at Zumanity’s nod to World War II era cabarets.

Eat!

          Okay, this one is a little more indulgent, but I’m not talking about the multi-cuisine buffets. Many world-class chefs have restaurants in Vegas, and their portion sizes won’t have you poolside in a food coma. I recently discovered Mon Ami Gabi, a French restaurant inside the Paris (big surprise!) Hotel & Casino on the Strip. We waited just thirty minutes and paid surprisingly reasonable prices to sit on the patio with a perfect view of the Bellagio dancing fountains. They happily accommodated my vegetarian diet by replacing the shrimp in my pasta dish with a bright vegetable medley. Best of all, we had a prime spot for people watching as the sun went down.

Play!

          An art collective by the name of AREA15 recently popped up downtown, one mile west of the Strip. This 200,000 square foot warehouse is home to several interactive art exhibits such as 4D movie theaters, mirror mazes, and flight simulators. The most notable of these exhibits is Meow Wolf’s Omega Mart, a truly trippy adventure through a very strange labyrinth of a grocery store. See my article on Immersive Art for my full review of Omega Mart.

Hike!

          Las Vegas is set against a backdrop of bare mountains in a stunning array of colors, some reaching to elevations as high as 12,000 feet. If you’re not planning on being too hungover in the mornings, like me, you can hit the trails! It’s best to hike early in the morning or later in the afternoon, as the sun is unforgiving and desert vegetation offer little to no shade cover. I personally love to explore Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area, located just 20 minutes west of downtown. Day passes are just $15/ vehicle and you can even hike to some Native American petroglyphs.