I didn’t notice much difference, that is, until I was walking to my airplane on the last day. As I walked across the tarmac, I noticed that my plane was a rickettey old prop plane which looked like it was held together by masking tape and chewing gum. Wanting to take a picture of the contraption which would surely lead me to my death, I snapped a photo of it. Within seconds, three police officers with machine guns grabbed me and threw me up against a wall. Two of the officers held me at gunpoint while the third took my camera and sifted through my photos and deleted everything he felt was inappropriate for me to have photographed.

Kerala was amazing. The drive to Thekkadi was stunning. We drove through mountains in the jungle, through tea and spice plantations, and through rubber tree farms. We saw people commuting by elephant.

Our hotel in Thekkadi was on an island which we could only get to by boat in the Periyar Wildlife Sanctuary which was originally the hunting grounds of the Maharajah of Travancore – and the hotel we stayed in was the palace where the Maharajah stayed while hunting. I can understand why he choose this place: the area was crawling with wildlife: wild boars, deer, buffalo, elephants, tigers, monkeys, eagles, vultures, birds, you name it. We saw no cobras, but we did spot a small water snake. It was quite far away, so it could have been a stick or a weed, but I’m pretty sure it was a snake. Probably poisonous.

We went on a long hike through the jungle where we were followed by monkeys who were trying to get some insider tips on how to be more human. It turns out I am not very good at keeping secrets. By the end of our hike, two of the monkeys had laptops.

Michelle and I rode an elephant called Akbar who I fell completely in love with. I am quite certain he fell in love with me, too. Michelle and I got to feed him after riding him, and he stared at me and leaned his giant head into my face while I pet his trunk. Michelle wouldn’t let me take him home.

We also made friends with an English couple who were on the hike with us. I am frustrated that I don’t have an English accent; I don’t sound anywhere near as clever as they do.

Then it was on to Alleppey where we spent a day and night on a houseboat. The crew cooked us three amazing meals including the largest tiger prawns I have ever seen and fish which were caught by the crew only minutes before being cooked. The crew laid anchor for us along a canal where Michelle and I were able to enjoy one of the most stunning sunsets in the history of the universe.

Then it was on to the Kumarakom lake resort where we spent the last days of our vacation getting spoiled rotten by the staff. The resort was a two hundred year old palace and the woodwork was stunning. Our cottage was on a meandering pool where we read books in the sun and relaxed until we became tense. I wore a dhoti which delighted the staff. Despite looking like a dress, a dhoti is a manly garb.

On the last day, we spent a few hours in Cochin, which used to be Dutch-controlled port. We visisted a Dutch-built cathedral, cemetery, and the old Dutch port. One of my ancestors lived in Cochin when it was controld by the Dutch; it was an amazing oportunity to see the old colonial buildings and imagine how strange it must have felt to arrive there without any idea what to expect and try to start a life.

As delicious as the food in India is, first thing Michelle and I did when we got back to Seattle was get hamburgers and microbrew at Quinn’s Pub on Capital Hill. It was awesome.

Ironically, our first weekend home, the New York Times travel guide featured a section on Kerala and happened to specifically mention the houseboat and lake resort we stayed at: Liquid Assets: A Perfumer Noses Around Kerala.

More NYT travel information on South India:

South India in Two Weeks

In the Land of Four-Star Asceticism

India Travel Guide

We’ll fly into Cochin and travel 5 hours east to Thekkadi where we will spend two nights in a “cottage on an island in a wildlife sanctuary”. Having seen the animals running around the tiny sanctuary in Mysore, this actually scares the bujezuz out of me. Sleeping on an island with this guy as my bunkmate sounds more like “terrifying” than “relaxing”.

India’s national mascot is the King Cobra, the world’s largest venomous snake.  It really bothers me that one of the deadliest animals on the planet is fast over land, can swim, can squiggle into small areas, can move about silently, and can strike accurately and lethally from something like 10 meters away. If it can kill a full-grown elephant with a single bite, the least nature could do is make it super gimpy or blind or something.

One of the managers here in Bangalore is from Kerala and I expressed my concerns about getting up in the middle of the night to stoke the fire only realize that what I thought was the fire poker was actually the business end of a cobra.  He really got a kick out of me being afraid of snakes in the cottage.  “Oh, they make sure there are no snakes in the buildings.  But you should be careful when you go outside or leave the door open.”  Thanks.  That helps.

While staying in the sanctuary, we’ll be going on an elephant safari or some similar activity that seems to border on suicide.  The good news here is that apparently, it’s possible to reattach limbs that get torn off by jungle beasts.  The base assumption here being that you survived the attack.  And even then, I bet it still ruins your trip.

After Thekkadi, we’ll be heading to Alleppey to get on a private houseboat for an overnight tour of the Kerala backwaters, which Conde Naste ranks as one of the ten things everyone should do before they die.  What they forget to mention is that you should time this trip so that you do it before you spend the night in a cottage on Cobra Island in Thekkadi because then it becomes one of the ten things you should have done before you cozied up to a 12 foot venomous snake.

The houseboat will then drop us off at our final destination in Kumarakom where we will have a room on a big lake.  Apparently, this is the place to be this time of year because most of the streams around the area will have dried up by now and all the wildlife will come to the water to drink.

If not, I’ll just use my croc-call to bring ‘em in.

Download audio file (croccall.mp3)

Disclaimer for both our mothers who I’m sure I have scrared half to death with this post: the dangers of this trip have been greatly exaggerated.  This is a very common itenerary and almost no tourists die on these trips.  Usually.

I feel like that’s great progress and I’m actually rather pleased that it happened so quickly.  The downside, however, is that at the end of a long day at work, when I’m tired and cranky, I’m feeling comfortable enough to show my frustration and get annoyed by the little things – just like I do when I’m home.  I suppose that means the honeymoon is over, but it doesn’t mean I love India any less.  It just means I got crabby at the housekeeping guy for making me fill out three forms because he couldn’t take my laundry without having all the right paperwork that goes along with it.  (In India, even laundry has a paper trail.)

Despite my comfort, some things don’t appear to be changing.  For example, my success rate of ordering room service is steady at about 67%.  I will place my order and the guy on the other end accepts it; only to have someone else call me a few minutes later to clarify the order.

I am routinely called a “Wine Weennie”. I prefer Old World wines; reds from the Rhone Valley in France, or a nice oaky Rioja.  Anything with a Grenache grape is aces in my book.  Indian wines don’t appear to fall into that narrow zone, so I don’t like to order wine at the hotel.  For beer, the Kingfisher lager has a nice, fresh taste, but lagers aren’t my thing (I’ll have a nice hoppy IPA, thankyouverymuch.)  With no other options (that I’m willing to try), I order gin and tonics with my dinners.

Room Service and I follow a rigorous process which is not deviated from:

I spent the weekend in Chennai with Michelle, kicking around her ‘hood.  Michelle has spent 3 of the last 6 months in Chennai, so she almost feels as though it is her second home.  She knows all her favorite restaurants and shops, the best markets, where to get the best poori and dosa, places to avoid, and places to go.  I have heard so much about Chennai from Michelle while she’s been here; it was utterly amazing to have the opportunity to spend time with her there and see it all first-hand.

We checked into the RainTree – one of the nicer hotels in Chennai – for the weekend.  We enjoyed dinner and drinks on the rooftop bar, passed the midday heat on Saturday lounging by the pool and swimming, and spent the less hot hours shopping and going to markets.  We did the same things on Sunday, except that we also visited a beautiful temple in Chennai, located at one of the original city centers (Chennai grew from two villages which became the two city centers.)

Chennai is a beautiful city with a completely different character from Bangalore; while it’s grittier, it’s also more real and has an intangible sense of life which, in an odd manner, reminds me of Toulouse.

The bottom line is: I love Chennai, miss it already, and can’t wait to go back.

I flew from Bangalore to Chennai on Friday evening and we drove down to Pondicherry, about a three-hours drive. Along the drive, we have various surprising experiences. The first was seeing a motorcycle driving on the highway with a passenger who was holding a 4×8 sheet of plywood in his hands. He was holding it straight up and perpendicular to the direction of travel, like one of the sails on the Black Pearl. We were half-tempted to hang behind them and wait for the guy to inevitably sail off the back of the bike. But we didn’t.

Then, once we turned off the main road onto the smaller road that leads to Pondicherry, we struck up a conversation with our driver, Sethu, who had lived in Italy for two years. It turns out he was on the roadside of the Giro d’Italia when Marco Pantani won in 1998. The cashew trees were in bloom, so here we are in the middle of South India, chatting about Marco Pantani with Sethu while smelling the fresh scent of cashew blossoms. In India, you just never know what is going to happen next.

Well, we actually did know what would happen next: we spent the following day in Pondicherry, a French colonial town on the Bay of Bengal. Needless to say, it’s a beautiful town and – since we’re in South India – it was crowded and stiflingly hot.

The next day, we drove up the coast to the ancient temple town of Mahabalipuram. These amazing temples were carved straight out of a solid hunk of granite. ALL OF THEM. ONE HUNK OF GRANITE. Holy buckets. Unfortunately, most of the temples were never completed due to wars and people dying, etc, but it is a truly amazing site.

Read more about Mahabalipuram and Pondicherry.

I walked down the main road where my hotel is, and turned left onto a larger road and was amazed at how calm the traffic was at 8 in the morning; I only heard about a 7 honks per second, whereas normal traffic hovers around 35. I went about a block and turned down a side street and headed back towards the hotel.

India is amazing. To a Westerner, there is a lot of noise and commotion, and things seem disorganized and messy. But, if you look closely, there is beauty everywhere: people take care of everything they have; sweeping and cleaning, putting on their best clothes, and making sure their belongings are as tidy as possible. A valuable lesson for anyone.

I had heard countless times about the traffic and activity on Indian streets, but nothing can prepare you for what it is like. I’m in Bangalore on business, and I have been working with people from India for most of my professional career. In my experience, they have been intelligent and hard-working, but most notably, they have been very process-oriented. With this in mind, the complete chaos of Indian traffic is a paradox beyond comprehension. The only rules of traffic that I’ve been able to identify are (a) there is no incident small enough not merit the honking of a horn, (b) traffic signs and lights are for sissies, and (c) although the idea is that the flow of traffic is roughly split between left and right and, in general, one drives on the left-hand side of the road; lanes are meaningless. Even this last one seems to be more of a “guideline” than a rule, and there have been more than a few occasions where I was in the sole car going the wrong way through oncoming traffic because it was slightly more convenient for the driver.

As a pedestrian, the experience shifts from being nerve-wracking to utterly terrifying. I wouldn’t say that traffic tries to hit pedestrians; it’s more that it doesn’t really try to avoid hitting pedestrians. While it appears to be frowned upon, it doesn’t seem to be a major concern. My strategy is to shield myself in a crowd that I estimate is bigger than any driver is willing to hit. Twenty to thirty appears to be the magic number.

With the goal of having me survive my visit to India, my company has assigned me a driver, Murali, who drives me everywhere I want to go – day and night, 7 days a week – and who waits for me while I shop, or eat, or try to hopscotch my way across a street (and he probably also laughs at my ignorance, but he doesn’t get paid for that part). Murali’s charter includes showing me around Bangalore and the surrounding area, taking me to any kind of restaurant I like, and keeping me alive.

On my first weekend here in Bangalore, Michelle came across from Chennai by train. She arrived around 1:00pm, and after some minor confusion on how to meet each other, we met halfway around the world from where we’d last seen each other.

My driver took us around Bangalore, showing us some important government buildings and taking us shopping. Afterwards, he took us to a restaurant where we were going to have some drinks and dinner.

We arrived at the restaurant around 5:00pm, and were told that they won’t serve dinner until 7:00 because they had to fuck first, but we were welcome to have drinks while we waited. Michelle and I stood in stunned silence for a few very long moments while we tried to understand what the hostess could possibly mean. Finally we realized that they were planning to fumigate (fog, not fuck, apparently) the terrace to clear out the various flying nuisances that are common in the area. Relieved, we accepted and settled into a table and ordered some drinks. A few minutes later, we found ourselves in a suffocating cloud of DDT or whatever they fumigated with. Ever since, my elbow has felt funny, and I’m pretty sure it’s because I’m growing a second head there. Stupid DDT.

The next day, Murali took us to the city of Mysore, about three hours – 100 kilometers – southwest of Bangalore. On the way, we stopped at a Muslim temple where orphans were attending Karan school, we went to a Hindi temple where I was blessed by a holy man, and to a bird sanctuary where Murali arranged for a private, covered boat to take us around a lake where we saw a stunning array of birds and were much closer to crocodiles than I would care to ever be again. Oh, and we saw monkeys.

To recap: traffic is crazy, if you’re not honking, you’re doing something wrong, DDT makes my elbows feel funny, and monkeys and crocodiles are cool.

A geeky bonus joke:

I mentioned to one of my team members the paradox of how process oriented the team is, yet how chaotic the traffic is. He laughed and said, “Yes, we are very process oriented only in the office. In traffic, we follow the Agile method.”

Michelle and I were in California for the weekend, and if you ever have a chance to make it down to Palm Springs, make sure you stop by Joshua Tree National Park. We drove to the north end of the park and hiked the 49 Palms Oasis trail before driving from the north end of the park down to the south end. It’s an amazing place, with crazy wildlife. We were lucky enough to see some lizards and the guy from the Geiko commercials. He offered us pie and chips. For free.

The 49 Palms Oasis hike was crazy and led to an actual real-life oasis. You hike through the desert in stifling heat for a few miles and suddenly – out of nowhere – are all these palm trees, standing in pools of water. It’s absurd.

It was a beautiful day; we didn’t let it slip away.

Apart from us both getting sick, we had a great time running around my home country. It is always a pleasure to be in Europe, but to have the chance to show Michelle my favorite places and spend time with family that we see all too infrequently was a real privilege.

Here is a high-level overview of our trip:

Day 1: After delayed flights and the usual confusion brought on by being in UnAmerica, Michelle and I finally met up at our hotel in Amsterdam. Thrilled to see each other, we popped out for dinner and enjoyed a nice bottle of wine. After dinner, I brought Michelle over to a Snackbar that I had spied with my little eye while trying to find a parking spot. Michelle was introduced to the almighty Croquette. And it was good.

Day 2: My cousin Jochem, who lives in Amsterdam, met up with us in the city center and took us around to his favorite places in town. Amsterdam is a wonderful city and, although it is a small city by many standards, it has so many distinct neighborhoods and such a diverse culture that it feels larger than it is.

Day 3: We traveled a sixth of the way across the country (about fifty kilometers) to Delft, my favorite city on Earth. We started the day by popping down to the market to score some fresh stroopwaffles. Michelle’s life will never be the same. After that, my Uncle Gijs and Aunt Vibeke took us to the Kinderdijk, which is a windmill museum in the province of South Holland. We had lunch in Schoonhaven before returning to Delft to have dinner with my cousin Barent in Leiden.

Day 4: We kicked around Delft and took Gijs and Vibeke out to dinner.

Day 5: We went to Amsterdam to meet my cousins Deborah, Folkert, and Coen and spent the day walking around town, visiting cafes, and shopping. The big event of the day was taking a boat tour of the canals in Amsterdam with a racist boat captain who was so thrilled to have actual Dutchmen on the boat that he spent the boat ride spewing racist jokes at us.

Day 6: We had a ‘rest’ day at my Aunt Doortje and Uncle Max’s house in Utrecht. My dad is knowns as a bit of an over-packer, and traditionally takes up a minimum of three rooms while repacking suitcases. Not one to disappoint family, Michelle and I arrived with the maximum number of suitcases allowed by the airlines, and proceeded to occupy the requisite number of rooms while trying to figure out how to get all our things packed into the right suitcases (this goes to India, this goes to Seattle, etc). My cousin Welmoed, who has since moved to New York City, Jochem, and his girlfriend Anette all joined us for a wonderful dinner in town.

That’s exactly what our trip to San Francisco felt like; we were gone only five days, but it felt like we had been on vacation for weeks. We drove this route along the Pacific Coast Highway to San Francisco, spent three days there, and drove back. The drive down the coast was staggeringly beautiful – I can’t believe this kind of thing exists in our back yard. If you haven’t done it and have the opportunity to, do yourself a favor and make the trip. Just don’t try to read in the car – the road is a trifle twisty.

We drove from Seattle to Crescent City, California Wednesday night. Then, we started out along Highway 101 at about 7:00am Thursday and arrived in San Francisco around 11:00pm. There we spent two days kicking around town before meeting up with Pat and Val on Sunday who coincidentally were in San Francisco the same weekend for a wedding.

Pictures are posted below, but make sure you click the Full Screen button to view the photo album in all its glory.

Our trip down the Pacific Coast Highway to San Francisco was such an experience. Somehow, we found ourselves hearing or saying ridiculous things at every turn, and it made the trip that much more enjoyable. Here’s a sampling some of those moments:

Garberville, California. I was waiting to buy a cup of coffee while Michelle waited in the car. Some dude nearby was saying something about police somewhere in Montana being militia. He suddenly stopped mid-sentence and turned to some random guy walking by and yelled, “Did you just call me ‘Commie Pinko Fucker’? Because that’s what they used to call me when I moved here…”

True Sake, San Francisco, California. We were buying a bottle of Sake, and I foolishly asked the woman working the counter if we should heat the Sake up before drinking it. With a look that betrayed a deep personal offense she said, “No, James Bond doesn’t know anything about drinking Sake. You can have it at room temperature if you want, but never hot.” She went on to tell us that when Sake first came to the United States, they only imported bad Sake and the importers told the servers to heat it up to mask the bad taste. I don’t really care whether it’s true or not; I just like the fact that she assumed my question was based on watching James Bond. Which it was, of course. Most of my “cultural knowledge” is based on Bond movies. (So are my fighting moves, come to think of it.)

Rage Against The Machine Concert, San Francisco, California. Insanely cool show. We got there just in time to buy t-shirts and head to the beer garden before the show started. In the beer garden, we were trying to decide between the $8.00 beer or the $7.00 glass of wine, not convinced either was a sound investment. We decided to go with the wine. The guy pouring had clearly been sampling too much of the product, and poured the first plastic cup all the way to the rim. I said to him, “I like the way you pour.” He replied, “You mean, ‘All the way to the fuckin’ top?’” Yes, I suppose “all the way to the fuckin’ top” was exactly what I meant.

During the show, there was a mosh pit just to our left with a bunch of dudes jumping around and getting hurt. This is college code for “fun”. Apparently, Michelle and I are not into “fun” anymore. We demonstrated this by being concerned about our personal safety and being upset that their “fun” was impacting our ability to enjoy the show. Frank’s number one post-show quote: “That fat guy was a hazard.”

Absinthe Brasserie, San Francisco, California. After spending the afternoon in Hayes Valley, Michelle and I decided to relax and enjoy a light meal and a bottle of Rosé. Michelle was wisely keeping her eye on the buses driving by, knowing we would have to catch the 21 line back to our hotel.

Michelle: “You know what’s weird? I’ve noticed a lot of 21′s go that way, but I haven’t see any go back.”

Frank: “Do you think it has anything to do with this being a one-way street?”

Photos from the trip are forthcoming.