Life's a Beach

Photo by Dionysus

 

 

Alli is trawling the beaches of Thailand looking for interesting material for new blog posts. It's a hard life!

Pop kan mai!

Carrying Cumin to Kerman

By Heidi Noroozy

Ever since my college days, I’ve collected proverbs, those metaphorical sayings that express a universal truth. It all started because one of my German professors who’d specialized in folklore brought his love of these sayings into the classroom. He had us collect examples of proverbs and their representations in art and popular culture, and when we stumbled over points of grammar and hard-to-remember vocabulary, he’d urge us to keep trying. “Aller guten Dinge sind drei,” he’d say. Three’s a charm.

To celebrate his own favorite—“see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” (nichts sehen, nichts hören, nichts sagen in German)—my professor filled his office with images of the three wise monkeys associated with this phrase. It is what people say when they don’t want to involve themselves in a situation that is likely to bring them trouble. Although I’ve often heard that this proverb originated in Japan or China, I can’t help noticing how similar it is to the Zoroastrian principle of “think good thoughts, speak good words, do good deeds.”

My husband shares my love of proverbs, although he doesn’t always realize his favorite sayings hail from these pithy expressions, and he tends to translate them into English literally. Early in our marriage he’d accuse me of “being in another garden” when he had trouble getting my attention. Unfortunately for him, even today I’m often in another world, a fictional realm that can feel more real to me than my physical reality—especially when I’m deep in the first draft of a story.

Or when I’m out of sorts and complaining too much, he’ll say “the food is always tastier in the neighbor’s house.” Yes, I know—the grass is greener… To be honest, I never really understood the English equivalent of this proverb. Why should I care where the grass is the greenest? If I were a cow, horse, or even a goat, perhaps it would make sense. But show me the way to a good meal, and I’ll follow you anywhere.

Another one of my favorite Farsi proverbs has an equivalent in many languages: zeyereh be Kerman bordan (carrying cumin to Kerman). It means to engage in pointless activity, the equivalent of carrying coals to Newcastle. Just as Newcastle was once a major coal-exporting town, the Iranian city of Kerman is famous for its cumin. I like this proverb because it lends itself to endless variations: carrying roses to Kashan, tea to Lahijan, or carpets to, well, just about anywhere in Iran.

Do you have a favorite proverb? If you do, share it in our comments section—in any language you like!

Off The Beaten Track: Return to Kashmir

A California transplant now living in Denver, Mark Stephen Levy left his job as a sales executive for a major technology company to spend two years traveling through Europe, Morocco, India, Nepal, Tibet, and China and to write his first novel, Overland. The story is set in Afghanistan, but Mark's travels in India helped set the tone to enable him to write his book. He also writes for a cable TV show, Food Paradise, based in New York City. You can read more about Mark and his novel as well as his adventures in India on his web site, www.overlandthebook.com.

When my adventure/romance novel Overland was published in India early last year, my publisher strongly suggested I come to India to promote it. They didn’t need to ask me twice. I had once toured India in the mid-’80s. I was in a state of rapture the entire time and left with life-changing impressions. I longed to return, and finally, here was my chance!

I got to spend 10 weeks touring around the country, from the Himachal Pradesh towns of Dharamsala and Manali then down the road to Rishikesh and later Kolkata. Then farther south, to Mumbai, Goa, Bangalore, and Kerala. I even gave a speech at a university, Central University Jharkhand in Ranchi. I hadn’t been to any of these places before, yet the place I wanted to visit the most was one I’d already been to on my first trip to India. That heaven on earth known as Kashmir.

Back in 1985, I’d chanced upon a houseboat called the Pala Palace. It was situated on Dal Lake, parallel to the main road in Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir. I’d stayed a week with Aziz, the owner of the houseboat, along with his family. I integrated into their lives with thought-provoking, culturally rich activities on their boat. I’d become especially good friends with Shefi, Aziz’s 14-year-old son.

Naturally upon my return to Kashmir, I thought how cool it would be to see if Aziz, Shefi, and the houseboat were still around. I arrived into Srinagar’s airport slightly travel weary. When asked by the tourist officials at the airport about my stay here in Srinagar and where my base would be, I mentioned Pala Palace, the only name I knew. A local Kashmiri man nearby overheard this exchange and approached me.

“Yes! I know Aziz and Pala Palace. It is new Pala Palace. Aziz is my cousin.”

He directed me to take a certain bus outside the terminal into town then go to a certain hotel, where Shefi would meet me and take me to the houseboat. I couldn’t believe I was going back to the same houseboat and would see Aziz after 26 years!

Now, outside the airport was another matter. I caught the right bus towards the hotel, but a local guy with a long beard intercepted me and wanted to show me to his houseboat. I turned him down and told him I’d be staying at the Pala Palace, yet we rode the bus together into town. He seemed amiable enough and who was I to say he couldn’t ride the bus?  When we got off the bus, he became insistent about my seeing his houseboat. Sometimes, these sorts of things happen and we just have to go with the flow, so … we went to his boat.

It turned out to be a really nice boat, great views and quiet. Even better, they had Internet! When I realized I wasn’t going directly to the Pala Palace, and knowing I had six nights in Kashmir, I figured that was okay. Here I was back in serene and peaceful Kashmir, after all.

I spent a quiet, familiar, and ever exotic first day, savoring the Thursday afternoon. It was a special day in celebration of the coming Islamic holiday on Friday, as prayer calls from all directions were heard bouncing off the lake. It was intoxicating and purely mystical.

Later that evening, through the channels of how things go, Shefi and another man, Aziz’s brother, showed up to this other houseboat. When I didn’t meet Shefi at the hotel, word spread all the way back to the airport and security that an “American arrived and wanted to stay at the Pala Palace but never showed up.” Somehow, they traced my steps all the way to accompanying this bearded man to the other houseboat, and voila, Shefi found me.

Aziz, 26 years later

Immediately, we embraced. He was 26 years older, but it was definitely Shefi. I asked about Aziz, and they whisked me off to go see him and the Pala Palace, leaving my bags behind. The Shakira, a small boat that’s the standard means of transportation throughout the lake, pulled alongside the Pala Palace, and there was Aziz. He was much older now, in his 70s, and looked a bit sickly, but he still had that spirit I loved when we met so long ago. He told me he’d been worrying all day about what could have happened to me, repeatedly calling me “my American friend.” His voice was more gravely than ever, his English still rudimentary, but his effort to communicate and the vibes he gave off were touching.

We went to the back of his boat with various members of his family and all talked for a bit over a few cups of tea. We caught up on the past couple decades we’d lost touch. I told him I had written a book and that he had been the inspiration for one of my main characters in Overland. The plan was for me to return the next day with my bags, which I did for two nights. Being found by Shefi this way blew my mind, and what was to follow in the coming days turned out to be the best week of my life.

Santorini: Home of the Gods

By Edith McClintock

Fira, Photo by Yoo Chung

The gods do not want me to cruise. I know this firstly because I have been given the gift of seasickness. Further proof came on my first cruise through the normally tranquil seas of the Bahamas when our creaking wedding cake of a ship hit a hundred-year storm. Believe me when I tell you there is no pill on earth to convince me that being tossed about in the bowels of an overcrowded, floating condominium battling a vastly superior and angry sea is a human experience for which I should spend hard-earned money.

I do, however, understand others feel differently—my boyfriend and his parents were happily gambling the evening away while I moaned in pain begging the sea gods to please just pull us under already and end my misery.

Oia at sunset

But I did give cruising one last try in the Greek isles aboard the MS Sea Diamond (in truth, a diamond in need of some polishing, may she rest in peace). Although we didn't hit a storm this time, I was still most grateful to the Sea Diamond for bringing me safely within the sparkling blue waters of Santorini—a remnant volcanic caldera created in the Aegean Sea around 1630 BCE when a volcanic explosion blew the top off the island. The eruption likely caused the downfall of the Minoan civilization centered on nearby Crete and may even have given birth to the legend of Atlantis.

I was particularly happy when the Sea Diamond sailed away, leaving me on solid ground again. And what a terrain. What a setting. For three days we wandered in awe through white-washed towns with blue-domed churches clinging precariously to the tops of plunging cliffs. We hiked rugged hills past tiny pink churches and the ancient ruins of Minoa. We rested in cliffside cafes, tasting crisp white wines and mezes of eggplant, garlic, yogurt, and cucumber. We watched golden sunsets shimmer over a mountain of pastel homes intertwined with sea and sky and volcanic rock.

Fira, Oia, Firostefani, Thera. Even the names are beautiful.

It was early April when I visited, just after the Easter holiday and still cool, the crowds not yet arrived. But Santorini would be breathtaking at any time of the year. I tell everyone I meet to go—by ferry or plane (which is how I got home). Go. Even by cruise ship, if you must. But not by the Sea Diamond. She sank the following year, hitting a volcanic reef within that same caldera and sinking to her ultimate resting place with the gods of the sea—within the spectacular bay of Santorini. Paradise.

And as for further cruising, I think the gods have spoken and I will obey.

For more, visit my author website and/or personal blog, A Wandering Tale. Even better, order a copy of Monkey Love & Murder on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or the Book Depository (free shipping nearly anywhere in the world).

Worlds Within Worlds

By Supriya Savkoor

Just back from a weekend trip that was unexpectedly unique and  one I’m certain to remember for years to come.

My aunt, a self-published author visiting the States from India, invited me to join her at a conference in New Jersey this past weekend. She tempted me by saying she would be teaching a creative writing workshop for kids as well as speaking on an author panel to promote her book. Both events cinched the deal—I got myself registered, and we coordinated where to meet and where to stay.

But the weekend did not get off to a great start. It was a scorcher, first of all. I started my drive from Northern Virginia in 112-degree weather. What should have been a 3-hour drive turned into a more than 6-hour long haul. Along the way, the occasional broken-down car lined the shoulder of the highway. The temperature dropped steadily till after dark, my A/C finally started working. By the time the outside temp reached 92, it started to feel chilly inside the car. I was sleepy, trying to think about which of my previous vacations I could write about for today’s blog. Meanwhile, cars with clever vanity plates such as M3RLOT, BKEEPNG, HIP1 CHIK, and U R LVD, whizzed past me, making me wonder instead about the inner lives of their passengers and the more interesting stories they could tell rather than those of my old vacations.

I reached Edison late Friday night, and by Saturday morning, I found myself at the opening ceremony of the convention. You probably guessed I was attending a writers’ conference, but no. It was a conference dedicated to all things Konkani—Konkani being the linguistic and cultural group from which I hail, and which I’ve written about in this space often. Some 1,800 attendees registered, flying in from nearly every continent. The organizers billed it as the largest gathering of Konkanis outside India. I didn’t think they could surprise me, but the event was so beautifully organized, it left me, and countless others, in awe. In addition to amazing entertainment and delicious food, the convention was filled with presentations and workshops led by noted Konkani luminaries—film directors, actors, authors, philanthropists, musicians, even a famous Top Chef, who judged a terrific recipe contest. (I must get those fusion recipes for tamarind-braised ribs with kale, avocado smoothies, and jackfruit kebabs.) Another contest, Konkanis Got Talent, was filled with some really impressive talent, some of whom I feel certain to hear more about in the years to come.

Then there were the dozens and dozens of instances of running into friends and family I hadn’t seen in eons, in some cases up to 25 or 30 years. I even ran into a woman with whom I’d had a chance meeting on a train in India in the late ‘80s. (Definitely a story for another day!) There were so many such incidents, in fact, that the weekend left me in awe about … well, so many things. The power of culture and community, of course. The passage of time. The magic of coincidence. Different moments of my life remembered and appreciated. History, my own, and that of this group of diverse people from the world over.

The event’s chief guest was someone I hadn’t heard of before, but who brought the crowd to their feet with his inspiring opening speech. You can read about T.V. Mohandas Pai here, but in addition to all the other amazing things you might learn about him, consider this: He’s a top executive who voluntarily donates 40 percent of his salary to charity. What good is money if you can’t use it to help others, right? Filled me with pride.

I can’t quite remember the number he cited of how many Konkanis there are, something like 2.2 million or maybe it was 2.6 million. Either way, as he rightly noted, it’s hardly a blip when you consider the population of India as a whole is 1.2 billion. And again, it kind of got me thinking about those cars I’d passed on the drive up, wondering about the lives of people I haven’t met, all the untold stories waiting to unfold. Most folks I meet, even Indians, haven’t heard of Konkani, and yet here’s this rich, complex community, represented in nearly every country, every religion, every profession. Not exactly a hidden community but certainly a subculture of sorts. 

And yet someone passing the convention center might think what was going on inside was just another Indian festival in the New Jersey suburbs, right? Not hardly.

Taking a break

Photo by Tevaprapas Makklay

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alli is taking a break from blogging for the next two weeks as she’ll be exploring the markets, beaches, and temples of Thailand.

Pop kan mai!

Saints, Heretics, and Dueling Minstrels

Eisenach

By Heidi Noroozy

One summer many years ago, I spent a week in Eisenach, a town nestled in the forest-green hills of Thuringia, Germany. For seven days, I lived in a house borrowed from an old family friend and explored the city’s tangle of nearly vertical streets. Every morning at seven sharp, I’d listen eagerly for the cheerful tinkling a bell that heralded the arrival of a local bakery’s home delivery cart. I’d dash up the steep cobblestone alley, a few coins in hand, to buy fragrant rolls, still warm from the oven, fresh butter, milk for my morning coffee, and a serving of strawberry yogurt, which came in a thick glass bottle.

That week wasn’t my first trip to Eisenach. In fact, I’ve been visiting the city off and on since the age of five. One of my earliest memories is riding a donkey up a steep road to Wartburg Castle, the fortress that grows out of the very rock on which it was built. The ride had seemed to last for miles at the time, but when I walked the same route as an adult many years later, it turned out to take a mere five minutes on foot.

My mother's childhood
home

My mother grew up in a big, drafty house on Burgstraße, the road leading up the “Burg” (fortress) high atop the hill. As a child, she rarely saw the inside of the castle, only entering it when her grandfather came to town. He always had two special treats for her: a tour of the Wartburg and a slice of Bienenstich, a honey-almond cake, at a café in town.

Perhaps because my mother’s childhood played out in the shadow of the Wartburg, the fortress has always been a bit special to me. I’ve long been fascinated by the stories and legends associated with the place, three in particular:

The Sängerkrieg: In 1207, Landgraf Heinrich of Eisenach allegedly hosted a competition between minstrels (known as the Minnesänger) in the Wartburg. Some of the participants were real minstrels (Walter von der Vogelweide, Wolfram von Eschenbach, and Reinmar von Zweter) and at least one was a fictional character (Klingsor of Hungary). Highlights of the event were the Fürstenlob, where the minstrels had to prove which of them could best sing the praises of a prince, and the Rätzelspiel, a lyrical contest between Wolfram and his fictional sorcerer, Klingsor. Although there’s no evidence that the Sängerkrieg was anything more than a poetic fantasy, the competition is depicted in a series of frescoes in the Wartburg's Great Hall.

Wartburg, Eisenach
Photo by Thomas Doerfer

Saint Elizabeth and the Roses: Fifteen years after the Sängerkrieg, Heinrich’s son, Ludwig, married Princess Elizabeth of Hungary. She dedicated her life to helping the poor and gave away so much food from the castle’s storerooms that her husband and his family feared that there wouldn’t be anything left over for them. One day, as Ludwig encountered Elizabeth walking into town with a heavy basket of bread, he asked what essential supplies she was giving away this time. “Roses,” she replied. When Ludwig peeked under the cloth covering the basket, he saw that the bread he knew she’d snuck out of the castle had miraculously turned into roses.

Martin Luther and the devil: Skipping ahead a few centuries, the monk and theologian whose ideas inspired the Protestant Reformation spent a year in the Wartburg under the protection of the Elector of Saxony after the Pope pronounced him a heretic. He translated the New Testament there, and, as legend would have it, engaged in heated arguments with the devil. At one point, he supposedly tossed an ink well at his horned opponent, leaving a dark blot on the wall.

Lutherhaus in Eisenach

The Wartburg might boast some of Eisenach’s best stories, but the city has many other sites worth a visit. It is the birthplace of Johann Sebastian Bach, and the Bachhaus museum contains a collection of 400 musical instruments, including some unique ones such as a trumpet-violin.

The Lutherhaus is one of Eisenach’s oldest half-timber buildings. Around the turn of the 16^th century, it was owned by the wealthy Cotta family, with whom the young Martin Luther lived from 1498 to 1501 while attending the St George Latin School.

Eisenach is also home to the narrowest house in Germany. Built around 1750, it is just over six feet wide. In 1900, the house was nearly torn down when the Eisenach City Council decided the odd little structure was an eyesore and didn’t fit with the town’s image. But the owner stood his ground and not only saved his home but even received permission renovate the place and give it the colorful, Art Nouveau façade it still has today.

The Narrow House,
Eisenach

My last visit to Eisenach was a few years ago when I drove there from Frankfurt with a couple of good friends. Although the neighborhood bakery cart with its little bell is probably long gone, my mother’s old childhood home still stands on the side of the mountain, even if it is a bit the worse for wear. And the Wartburg, now a UNESCO World Heritage site, continues to watch over the town from its rocky perch. It’s the combination of history, legend, and personal roots that keep me coming back to Eisenach time after time.