Condolences to Arshad for his father's passing away this weekend. Inna lillahi wa inna ileihi rajioon.

Today is the first Saturday of May and you know what that means . . . DERBY DAY! Perhaps not all of you are familiar with the Kentucky Derby, the first jewel of U.S. horse racing's Triple Crown. Now, I'm not a gambling man, but this day holds some special memories for me. The event is held every year on the first Saturday of May at Churchill Downs in Louisville, Kentucky. The city bustles about weeks in advance to prepare for the horsey crowd that will descend upon the banks of the Ohio River with their newly-purchased large-brimmed hats, their mint juleps (which can only be served in sterling silver cups), and their 'nocs trained on the ponies. The "Run for the Roses" may be the main event, but it is not the only event. You got yer "Ramble for the Roses" - a five-mile walk through Louisville's South End. You got yer "Run for the Rose'" - a race in which servers from area restaurants run around a challenging obstacle course balancing six full glasses of wine. You got yer "Run for the Rodents" - a race in which lab rats run around a tiny model of the Churchill Downs track and the winner gets a wreath of Froot Loops. Great Steamboat Races, Great Balloon Races, and the spectacular Thunder Over Louisville, the largest annual fireworks display in the U.S.

But none of that really mattered to me (although I did find the Run for the Rodents quite amusing and Thunder was a blast . . . ba-dump-bump). You see, the Friday before the first Saturday of May is Oaks Day. The Kentucky Oaks is also a horse race. It also attracts the millionaire set. It also awards the winning jockey a hefty sum of money and the winning horse a wreath of flowers. But where it differs from the Derby is that the Oaks is held on a Friday. That's a school day. That meant that every year, in anticipation of low student and teacher attendence and caught up in the Derby buzz, my school gave us that day as a vacation day.

No classes.
Free pass.
And they're off!

Sure, I could post the pix I took on my lovely walk down to the National Mall to see the brand-spankin-new WWII Memorial with a brief side-trip to the Tulip Library. But then I saw this . . .




Robosaurus, a 40 foot tall, 30 ton mechanical robot breathes fire after eating a car during a demonstration at Airfest 2004 in this recent undated photograph taken at the March Air Reserve Base, in Riverside, Cali. The two day air show which took place April 24-25, 2004 features both military and civilian aerial and ground demonstrations. (U.S. Air Force /Tech. Sgt Joe Zuccaro, HO)

I've been sneezing for an hour every morning, my eyes are watery, and my throat is itchy. I wonder why. Take this fun quiz and find out how YOU doin'.

In other news: Not again! Panic Station! Land Shark! The Return of Frankenfish!

Interesting news from our neighbors to the north -- Ontario has decided to allow Islamic Courts to decide civil disputes under sharia. No criminal cases, no corporal punishment, and no decisions on the rights of children. Just run-of-the-mill family disagreements, inheritance, business, and divorce issues. On the one hand, it's very progressive and admirable that Canada recognizes and is trying to accomodate the desires of its Muslim residents to resolve their disputes through an arbitration process that is rooted in Islamic law. Go Leafs! On the other hand, even though the process is voluntary and subject to mutual consent as well as court ratification, there does exist the risk that Muslims who do not want to resolve their disputes through these means may feel pressured to do so in order to avoid community displeasure. In fact, the president of the Canadian Society of Muslims has already made it clear that, in his opinion, Muslims who do not choose the sharia route "for reasons of convenience would be guilty of a far greater crime." Blame Canada! Thoughts? Comments?

My gramps cracks me up.

Hey, kids. I'm over my jetlag now and ready to blog about the regular, mundane, boring . . . zzzzzzz . . . sorry, I just made myself fall asleep. What have I been up to in the real-time world?

*read "Fahrenheit 451" by Ray Bradbury and marveled/shuddered at how the futuristic book, written in 1953, tells a tale that is not all that far off from present-day reality.

*saw Sleater-Kinney perform and completely rock the house.

You're no rock n' roll fun
like a party that's over
before it's begun
You're no walk in the park
more like a shot in the dark
with clues left for no one. . .

*watched three of the four episodes of Iron Chef America. Sakai is just adorable. And the way that man peels an apple is a work of art!

*made several rounds to the buffet table at Udupi Palace and helped myself to several plates loaded up with idly, dahi vada, masala dosai, gobi masala, and palak paneer.

*attended the March for Women's Lives with about a million other people (seriously, estimates are at about One Meeeellion Peeeople -- said in Dr. Evil's voice) downtown.

*performed a few culinary experiments by slathering feta cheese on cinamon bread; shredding Manchego cheese over popcorn; dipping baby carrots into hummus and tabouleh. Man, I need to go grocery shopping. I just realized that all of meals I prepared this weekend centered around condiments and side dishes. No wonder I ate so much at Udupi!

*downed some Clarinex to relieve my allergies and ended up sleeping most of the weekend away. Which, unfortunately, meant I missed out on seeing the Muslim comedian Azhar Usman perform. Rats! Here's a clip if you are interested in sampling his humor. Enjoy.

March 23, 2002
Tres triste, Saturday was our last day in Paris. We bought some fresh fruit from an outdoor weekend market for breakfast and surveyed our neighborhood one last time. Naturally, we could not leave the city without a jaunt through the Louvre Museum. Taking the advice offered by Lonely Planet, we had purchased our tickets to the Louvre from Fnac at Place de la Bastille the night before so by the time we reached the museum, we could skate right in. Upon entering the complex, the first sights that greeted us were the Mini-Me version of the Arc de Triomphe and the famous Pyramide du Louvre. The controversial pyramid designed by I. M. Pei is nearly dwarfed by the Renaissance era Sully, Denon, and Richelieu Wings that embrace the courtyard. But once inside the museum, all eyes are drawn heavenward to the towering window panes; the patrons tilt their heads back and gawk open-mouthed at the bright light and blazing glass overhead, like awed children mesmerized by shiny, glittery objects. Or maybe it was just me.



We spent about half of the day trekking from wing to wing, century to century. Venus de Milo, check. Winged Victory of Samothrace, check. Da Vinci's Mona Lisa (who, in true prima donna form, had her very own room, was encased in bulletproof glass, and, at 77 centimeters high, was much smaller in real life than one would imagine), check. Tourists, myself included, flocked to these famous works of art and clustered around them like buzzing bees dancing around their queen. Or, in this case, three queens. Not surprisingly, the Islamic Art section was not teeming with visitors, so we were able to absorb and appreciate the art at a leisurely pace.



The Egyptian antiquities section was pretty extensive but a far cry from the selection in the insanely crowded museum in Cairo where you are overwhelmed by the sheer number of items. There, you feel almost as though you are just dodging the seemingly carelessly tossed together exhibits and rummaging around the jam-packed collection in someone's dusty, musty, unventilated attic. Here, the exhibits are well-tended to, prettily displayed, and nicely spaced out in an orderly manner. Plus, you can breathe. Bravo, Le Louvre!

Starved, we had lunch at the closest brasserie we could find and indulged in our favorite dish: fromage et pain. We hit up the nearby Monoprix to load up on last-minute goodies and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening walking along the Seine River, dining at Diep again, and cramming all of our belongings into our straining, groaning luggage. So there you have it, folks: my and Lil Baji's trip to France.

Voila!

(Voila!)

March 22, 2002
Friday! Jummah! We thought we'd pay a visit to the largest mosque in Paris which just happened to be right in our neighborhood. The mosque was lovely, serene, and beautiful. Apparently, Islam is France's second largest faith (five million strong!), which came as a surprise to me considering the latest news about the potential French ban on headscarves in state schools (although the latest latest news is that 'discreet bandanas' may be allowed). Back to the mosque. Built from 1922 to 1926 in recognition of the sacrifice and suffering that Muslims (mostly North African) experienced protecting France during WWI, the complex included a huge Persian-carpeted prayer room, a gorgeously tiled courtyard with a marble fountain in the center, a tranquil, sunken garden, and a tea house and a hammam, neither of which were open.



Continuing the theme, our next stop was at the Arab World Institute or Institute du Monde Arabe (IMA) which was developed to symbolize the partnership between France and twenty-one Arab countries. The exterior looks a lot like a Borg ship because its chilling northern facade is looming and glassy and its soaring southern facade is decorated with 240 diaphragms, steel jaws that open and close according to the strength of the sun to let in enough light and heat without harming delicate items housed in the library or the museum. The diaphragms are intended to resemble Arabic mushrabiyah (wooden lattice-work window screens) but really just look scary to me. From floor to floor, we took a tour of the extensive exhibits, many of them loaned by Syria and Tunisia.

After an extended nap back in our room, we decided to take a walking tour of Marais, a trendy, fashionable district in Paris whose residents are known as Bobos, short for bohemian bourgeois . . . isn't that cute. Map in hand, we meandered through the streets, marveled at the many majestic mansions, and made our way to the Musee Picasso. Picasso's collection of over 200 paintings, over 150 sculptures, and over 3000 ceramics, engravings and drawing demanded a large venue. After Picasso's death, most of his collection went to the French state. And so, the Hotel Sale (named after the profession of its first owner, a salt tax collector) became the Picasso Museum in 1985. We went from room to room, up and down the stairs, and saw most of the collection which was laid out chronologically, from simple Impressionistic drawings to more abstract paintings to kooky Cubist sketches. My favorite exhibit was the La Guenon et Son Petit (Baboon and her baby) sculpture:



First of all, monkey! Second of all, I loved the fact that the materials Picasso used in the composition consisted of materials cobbled together from household items and his son's toys: A large pottery jar (belly), jug handles (shoulders and ears), pieces of wood (legs) and best of all, two model toy cars -- one car for the head with the windshield faming the eyes, the hood becoming the nose, the grill shaping the mouth; and one car for the lower part of the face with the trunk and rear fender forming the jaw. A few months later, this sculpture sold for $6,719,500. Shoulda snatched it when I had the chance!

Three week until . . .
Gotta get back
Back to the past
Samurai Jack *WACHA!*

March 21, 2002
The gray, blustery morning began with a circuit around the neighborhood and followed the narrow streets that led to Le Pantheon, where we (belatedly) celebrated International Women's Day.


Continuing along the ever-widening paths, we arrived at Jardins (Gardens) du Luxembourg. Although it was still too early for the flowers to bloom, too chilly for the children to ride the Shetland ponies, and too wet to sit on the sprawling lawns, we parked ourselves on a bench under the chestnut groves and enjoyed the view all the same.

We eased into our marathon shopping-spree by sniffing various shampoos (mmmm. . . flowery Klorane's Peony Shampoo!) and testing various lotions (ahhhh . . . Evian's hydrating moisturizers) before getting great deals at the local pharmacy for products that would have been elevated to "imported" status in the U.S. and therefore two to five times more expensive. Credit cards warmed up, we hit the big stores and shopped. And shopped. And burned our mouths with some lava-like cocoa hidden under some deceivingly cool whipped cream and then continued to shop. These were the good old days when the dollar was a little stronger and the prices were a little better. We were also taking advantage of the coupon book that the bigger hotels offer to the tourists to encourage shopping. Granted, we were not guests of any of those bigger hotels, but they certainly didn't mind when we helped ourselves to their free maps and coupon books spread out in the lobby and we certainly didn't bring it to their attention.

By late afternoon, we were simultaneously giddy and fatigued. At one point, our friend Balu was purchasing some fancy drinking glasses and, tired and still in the habit of repeating any French phrase that is given to her, engaged in the following conversation with the saleslady:

Balu: Parlez-vous anglais?
SL: Oui.
Balu: Oui. Ok, I would like to buy these, please.
SL: Credit card, please? Merci.
Balu: Merci.
(SL proceeded to wrap the delicate items individually and then place each one in a bag which was tied up with a flourish)
SL: Voila.
Balu (nodding her head in agreement): Voila!

Maybe it was one of those "location jokes" (you had to be there) or maybe we were light-headed from skipping lunch, but that just killed us. We were laughing with her and then just outright at her from that moment on. In fact, we are still laughing today.

March 20, 2002
Sandwiches and coffee in hand, we took the train (the RER line C4, "V" train; yeah, we finally figured out the system) to the Versailles-Rive Gauche station. Twenty minutes later, we were walking up the long path that led to the Chateau de Versailles. From simple hunting lodge to the ornate, gigantic palace of the Sun King, the Chateau was home to the Apartment of the Planets, the famous Hall of Mirrors, and Marie Antoinette's Suite where she was kickin' it old style in her crib until the Revolutionary peeps got all up in her grill, rolled her up to Paris, put the smack down and replaced the iced out bling around her neck with a guillotine blade. We lingered in the garden eating our sandwiches, gazed over the vast expanse of greenery, fountains, and ponds, and dodged the clumps of tour groups clogging up the palace. Did you know that Louis XV had his own Chocolate Recipe? He did.

We returned to Paris in the afternoon and browsed around some stores. My friend Coco once told me that the Japanese are so obsessed with Louis Vuitton products (they account for an estimated one-third of LV's worldwide sales) that they willingly pay up to 50% higher than retail prices for LV handbags in Japan and that there are special rules for Japanese tourists purchasing LV goods overseas. Apparently, the Japanese stores would often run out of stock because the demand was so high and so, some entrepreneurs would go overseas, purchase the merchandise at retail, and re-sell them in Japan for a much higher price. Getting wind of this scheme, LV stores began limiting the number of goods sold to Japanese tourists and requiring them to provide passport information before any transaction could be completed so that the store could maintain a database to ensure that the goods were for personal use rather than arbitrage. Coco regaled me with a story about witnessing a scruffy-looking Parisian teen purchasing three LV handbags from the store, meeting some Japanese tourists at the corner, and delivering the goods in exchange for a little commission. The LV salesclerk suspected something like this was afoot and followed the kid outside. When he saw what was going down, he chased after the culprits, but to no avail. At first, I thought Coco was pulling my leg. But when I saw the line of Japanese tourists wrapped around the Champs-Elysees LV store and scattered throughout inside, buzzing with excitement and arms full of leather goods, I sent her a mental apology for disbelieving her. Turns out, she was right.

Lesson in sociology over, we went to the small, rickety, tucked away Musee Maillol for a cool exhibition of Toulouse-Lautrec's posters and the rough drafts that preceded the final works of art. The exhibit was only open for a limited time and I was very pleased that we got a chance to check it out. Afterwards, like all addicts, we hit Cafe de Flore again. Caught unawares by a brief burst of sunshine for what seemed to be the first time during our entire trip, we were reminded of how blue the sky could be and, with our useless umbrellas tucked away, managed to get an unobstructed view of the neighborhood's beautiful old buildings.


Walk, browse, walk, dinner, walk, and finally get to sleep before midnight in preparation for tomorrow's full-on shopping spree.

Komedy Korner -- Excerpts from last night's Q&A with Dubya after his prepared speech:

Q: What's your best prediction on how long U.S. troops will have to be in Iraq? And it sounds like you will have to add some troops; is that a fair assessment?
A: Well, I -- first of all, that's up to General Abizaid, and he's clearly indicating that he may want more troops. It's coming up through the chain of command. If that's what he wants, that's what he gets. . . . If he wants to keep troops there to help, I'm more than willing to say, "Yes, General Abizaid."

Q: One of the biggest criticisms of you is that whether it's WMD in Iraq, postwar planning in Iraq, or even the question of whether this administration did enough to ward off 9/11, you never admit a mistake. Is that a fair criticism? And do you believe there were any errors in judgment that you made related to any of those topics I brought up?
A: Well, I think, as I mentioned, it's -- the country wasn't on war footing, and yet we're at war. And that's just a reality, Dave. [later] The people know where I stand. I mean, in terms of Iraq, I was very clear about what I believed. And, of course, I want to know why we haven't found a weapon yet.

Q: How would you answer those critics [who say your coalition is window dressing]? And can you assure the American people that post-sovereignty, when the handover takes place, that there will be more burden sharing by allies, in terms of security forces?
A: I don't think people ought to demean the contributions of our friends into Iraq. People are sacrificing their lives in Iraq, from different countries. We ought to honor that, and we ought to welcome that. [later] Some of the debate really center around the fact that people don't believe Iraq can be free; that if you're Muslim, or perhaps brown-skinned, you can't be self-governing and free. I strongly disagree with that.

Q: After 9/11, what would your biggest mistake be, would you say, and what lessons have you learned from it?
A: I wish you would have given me this written question ahead of time, so I could plan for it. (Laughter.) John, I'm sure historians will look back and say, gosh, he could have done it better this way, or that way. You know, I just -- I'm sure something will pop into my head here in the midst of this press conference, with all the pressure of trying to come up with an answer, but it hadn't yet. [later] I hope I -- I don't want to sound like I've made no mistakes. I'm confident I have. I just haven't -- you just put me under the spot here, and maybe I'm not as quick on my feet as I should be in coming up with one.

Our next stop on our self-created Goth tour was Cathedral de Notre Dame de Paris. The stormy weather provided a perfect backdrop for viewing the famous cathedral.



Beautiful rose windows, vicious-looking gargoyles, and an assortment of statues of kings, priests, and saints in various poses: the most attention-grabbing one was of St. Denis holding his own decapitated head in his hands. Having already communed with the dead, we passed on visiting the Archeological Crypt beneath the cathedral and stuck to wandering around the cathedral and ambling around its gardens.

A walk along the Seine became an accidental literary tour when we made a wrong turn and ended up seeing points of interest only made interesting through their links to Hemingway, Kerouac, and Sartre. We reached the heart of St. Germain des Pres and parked our tired bodies at a corner table at Cafe de Flore. To chase the chill away, we ordered a pot of hot chocolate. Little did we know at the time what a heavenly, mouth-watering, eyes-roll-back-in-pleasure indulgence we were going to get. Sure, the Italians have cornered the market on excellent coffee - Illy rules the roost. Granted, the Spaniards know their way around sweet liquid treats - the incredibly thick, satiny, dark, sinfully rich churros con chocolate at Chocolateria San Gines in Madrid is intense and matchless. But Cafe de Flore's stylish decor and decadent chocolate concoctions . . . Mon Dieu!

Refreshed and now on a sugar high, we hailed a cab to take us to the Arc de Triomph. When traffic ground to a halt to allow President Jacques Chirac to have the streets all to himself after an interview downtown, we jumped out of the cab and hoofed it from Haussman Blvd to the Champs Elysees. The blowing rain made a mockery of my umbrella and the only use I could make out of it was to wrap it up and use it as an elongated pointer to indicate the items I found worthy of attention: the four relief panels that decorated the Arc, the hundreds of figures that were carved around the sides, and the pocket-sized cars stuck on the twelve streets that led to it. Shivering and wet, we sought sanctuary at Diep, one of the few Chinese restaurants that I actually enjoyed. Normally, I don't like Chinese food unless it is made at home or made in China. But the lean caramelized ginger chicken, well-prepared stir-fried rice, and crispy spring rolls made me reassess my prejudice and redirect it towards American-made Chinese food. Back at 'home', belly full, legs exhausted, and mind long off of the sugar buzz, I hit the lights and was asleep before the room got dark.

March 19, 2002
If we had had enough time, we would have hopped, skipped and jumped to nearby Mont Blanc. As it was, we had to return to Paris early in the morning or else lose an entire day in the city and perhaps our hotel room. In a mere two hours, we were back in rainy Paris. The hotel management rather curtly informed us that we were going to be assigned a different room, this time without a balcony or a view of the street. Hmph!

We went to a nice brasserie near the Cardinal Lemoine metro and supped on crisp salads and hot goat cheese sandwiches (note: all French sandwiches must be lavishly buttered, even if the only filling between the slabs of bread is cheese). I love the fresh baguettes, but the crunchy, golden crust with its jagged edges does quite a number on the tender roof of my mouth at times. Hmmm. Maybe it is because I was cramming the delicious sammich into my mouth so quickly though. Luckily, I had some creamy cafe viennois (heavy cream with a dash of chocolate, poured over a two-shot espresso, topped with fresh whipped cream - just a fancy name for a mocha + dollop of whipped cream, I guess) to soothe my ragged flesh. As we sat digesting our meal and people-watching, we made this observation: Parisians own about 200,000 dogs and of those breeds (the majority of which could be tucked under one's fashionably-sleeved arm), there is a disproportionate amount of West Highland White Terriers prancing and mincing about. We started to point out all of the Westies that passed by, but the sheer number overwhelmed us and tuckered us out.

In deference to the gloomy, wet weather, most of the city's inhabitants decided to stay indoors. We, however, decided to go underground. The dark skies and stinging rain had put us in a dreary state of mind and so, to match our macabre mood, we decided to check out the Catacombes. Faced with the rather gruesome problem of overflowing cemeteries in the late 1700s, Parisians decided to preserve and relocate the bones of about six million folks to the tunnels of the unused quarries beneath the city. The Catacombes also came in handy during WWII when the French Resistance shared the space with the dearly departed and used the tunnels as their headquarters.

With no line in which to wait, we were immediately welcomed into the Catacombes. We descended a great many stone steps to arrive at a labyrinth of skull and bones. There were some interesting decorating techniques employed. Stacks upon stacks of bones that lined the walls were interrupted by varying patterns of skulls usually organized in a horizontal stripe, but occasionally arranged in the shape of a heart, a cross or, most intriguingly, a house (found out later it was an obelisk). Ghoulish as the job may be to assemble human remains in an efficient but aesthetically pleasing manner, someone seemed to have had fun doing it.



We continued to traverse the 1.6 km length of the dimly-lit passages of the underground graveyard. At one point, Lil Baji and I were the only people in an offshoot of the tunnel and when we held still, we could hear nothing but our own breathing. Our own heavy, increasingly rapid, freaking-us-out breathing. We quickly took our flesh-covered bones out of the dank tunnels and emerged into the fresh, damp air.

(wow, this entry is getting really long and we did a lot that day. i'll cut y'all some slack and end it here, to be continued tomorrow)

March 18, 2002
Off to Lyon! Well, more specifically, Bourg en Bresse, a quaint (read 'little') town 60 km north of Lyon in the Rhone-Alpes region. Actually, more precisely, Chateau Gaillard, a little (read 'diminutive') village in which one of my cousins had settled down. In order to travel lightly, we packed one small overnight bag each and arranged for the hotel to store the rest of our luggage until we returned. We joined the crush of Monday morning commuters in the metro maze and climbed aboard the TGV, France's high-speed train. Sleek (electrically powered steel and aluminum . . . shiny!), swift (speeds of 300 kmh or 186 mph although it broke a world record when it reached 515.3 kmh or 320.2 mph in 1990), and a sweet, comfortable ride.

It was a brilliant, sunny day and the rolling green hills and pastures flecked with white, wooly sheep sped by in a blur. The train smoothly pulled into the station right on time for us to make our connection. We had some snacks, stood patiently on our platform, and watched the passengers mill about the station. When our departure time neared, we approached a conductor to confirm which train would take us to Bourge en Bress. By the time we made ourselves understood, the junky train we were standing next to started to pull away. By the time the conductor made himself understood, we realized that that was our train. Oops.

Luckily, another train was available and eventually, we arrived at Gare de Part Dieu. My cousin picked us up, brought us to her charming house surrounded by lush fields and monster-sized forsythia, and fed us a proper Pakistan lunch which gave our stomachs a little break from all of the rich creams in which we had been indulging. Imagine that, curry to settle the stomach. When her gorgeous daughters (complete with large, liquid eyes and French pouts even when smiling) came home from school, we took a little excursion to St. Denis Tower, an ancient, dilapidated stone structure overlooking the village. The sunny day had given way to a wet dusk and eventually, the rain drove us back into the car for a quick tour of the town before returning home. The rest of the evening was spent playing games, coloring, watching old home movies, and catching up in 1/3 English, 1/3 French, and 1/3 Punjabi.

When night fell, it really fell. It was pitch black outside with no street lights, no car lights, and no store lights to pierce the darkness. The room we were given to sleep in had thick, wooden shutters that would effectively block any overeager, early morning light that might dare to wake us up early. No traffic noises, no neighbors voices, no nothing. It was almost too dark and too quiet to sleep, but we made a valiant effort and finally fell into the arms of Morpheus. Vive le sommeil!

March 17, 2002
Sunday morning le petit dejeuner of cheese omelets and cafe creme at a local bar was followed by idle roaming through the nearby open-air farmer's market at Place Monge. The fruits and vegetables were all so healthy, aromatic, and pleasantly displayed -- a far cry from the ghetto grocery stores we were used to. We decided to see what eye-candy the Parisian museums had to offer and so navigated our way down, through, and up the metro to the Musee d'Orsay where we stood in a long line for 45 minutes before we were finally allowed inside. Once a train station and a hotel and set along the banks of the Seine, the museum itself alone is worthy of some oohs and ahhs. I admired the wide glass awnings at the entrance, and the enormous clock at the end of one of the wings, and the lofty ceilings and long walls adorned with carvings of stone roses, before I even laid eyes on any of the art.


We began our self-guided tour with the upper level to view the impressionists Monet, Manet, Rodin, and crew. After a quick lunch at the museum's cafe, we continued our self-imposed art-appreciation day by going through each of the exhibits until we finally deemed ourselves saturated with paintings, sculptures, objets d'art. Oh, how I envied Van Gogh's lazy models napping in "The Siesta".



With a family as large as ours, we were bound to have a relative or two expecting a visit; this trip was no exception. We had a cousin in Lyon who was anticipating our arrival the next day and so we headed towards the main train station to book our seats. Although we are well-seasoned travelers, Gare de Lyon stumped us and we could not figure out how to get train tickets, when the trains departed and arrived, or where the metro ended and the RER began. After much hand-wringing, back-tracking, and broken French, we finally managed to secure our tickets.

We continued our confused, convoluted cavorting through Paris by attempting to find a flea-market on the outskirts of town. We arrived at what we thought was the Marche aux Puces de Montreuil in the 20th arrondissement, but upon seeing the nearly desolate sidewalks lined only with second-hand sneakers and cheap, dingy t-shirts, we quickly turned around and returned to the more familiar and comfortable Left Bank. We spent the evening braving the wind atop the Eiffel Tower and had a spectacular view of the glittering city at night. The cold started to seep into our bones and so dinner consisted of hot French fries, savory French onion soup, and fresh French crepes filled with Nutella. When in France . . .

A slight respite from the Paris travelogue (but still following the theme of zee French), and for all you Easter Bunnies (bok bok!), this one goes out to you...

Jesus Shaves by David Sedaris from "Me Talk Pretty One Day"

"And what does one do on the fourteenth of July? Does one celebrate Bastille Day?"

It was my second month of French class, and the teacher was leading us in an exercise designed to promote the use of one, our latest personal pronoun.

"Might one sing on Bastille Day?" she asked. "Might one dance in the street? Somebody give me an answer."

Printed in our textbooks was a list of major holidays alongside a scattered arrangement of photos depicting French people in the act of celebration. The object was to match the holiday with the corresponding picture. It was simple enough but seemed an exercise better suited to the use of the word they. I didn't know about the rest of the class, but when Bastille Day eventually rolled around, I planned to stay home and clean my oven.

Normally, when working from the book, it was my habit to tune out my fellow students and scout ahead, concentrating on the question I'd calculated might fall to me, but this afternoon, we were veering from the usual format. Questions were answered on a volunteer basis, and I was able to sit back, confident that the same few students would do the talking. Today's discussion was dominated by an Italian nanny, two chatty Poles, and a pouty, plump Moroccan woman who had grown up speaking French and had enrolled in the class to improve her spelling. She'd covered these lessons back in the third grade and took every opportunity to demonstrate her superiority. A question would be asked and she'd give the answer, behaving as though this were a game show and, if quick enough, she might go home with a tropical vacation or a side-by-side refrigerator-freezer. By the end of her first day, she'd raised her hand so many times, her shoulder had given out. Now she just leaned back in her seat and shouted the answers, her bronzed arms folded across her chest like some great grammar genie.

We finished discussing Bastille Day, and the teacher moved on to Easter, which was represented in our textbook by a black-and-white photograph of a chocolate bell lying upon a bed of palm fronds.

"And what does one do on Easter? Would anyone like to tell us?"

The Italian nanny was attempting to answer the question when the Moroccan student interrupted, shouting, "Excuse me, but what's an Easter?"

Despite her having grown up in a Muslim country, it seemed she might have heard it mentioned once or twice, but no. "I mean it," she said. "I have no idea what you people are talking about."

The teacher then called upon the rest of us to explain.

The Poles led the charge to the best of their ability. "It is," said one, "a party for the little boy of God who call his self Jesus and . . . oh, shit."

She faltered, and her fellow countryman came to her aid.

"He call his self Jesus, and then he be die one day on two . . . morsels of . . . lumber."

The rest of the class jumped in, offering bits of information that would have given the pope an aneurysm.

"He die one day, and then he go above of my head to live with your father."

"He weared the long hair, and after he died, the first day he come back here for to say hello to the peoples."

"He nice, the Jesus."

"He make the good things, and on the Easter we be sad because somebody makes him dead today."

Part of the problem had to do with grammar. Simple nouns such as cross and resurrection were beyond our grasp, let alone such complicated reflexive phrases as "To give of yourself your only begotten son." Faced with the challenge of explaining the cornerstone of Christianity, we did what any self-respecting group of people might do. We talked about food instead.

"Easter is a party for to eat of the lamb," the Italian nanny explained. "One, too, may eat of the chocolate."

"And who brings the chocolate?" the teacher asked.

I knew the word, and so I raised my hand, saying, "The Rabbit of Easter. He bring of the chocolate."

My classmates reacted as though I'd attributed the delivery to the Antichrist. They were mortified.

"A rabbit?" The teacher, assuming I'd used the wrong word, positioned her index fingers on top of her head, wiggling them as though they were ears. "You mean one of these? A rabbit rabbit?"

"Well, sure," I said. "He come in the night when one sleep on a bed. With a hand he have the basket and foods."

The teacher sadly shook her head, as if this explained everything that was wrong with my country. "No, no," she said. "Here in France the chocolate is brought by the big bell that flies in from Rome."

I called for a time-out. "But how do the bell know where you live?"

"Well," she said, "how does a rabbit?"

It was a decent point, but at least a rabbit has eyes. That's a start. Rabbits move from place to place, while most bells can only go back and forth--and they can't even do that on their own power. On top of that, the Easter Bunny has character; he's someone you'd like to meet and shake hands with. A bell has all the personality of a cast-iron skillet. It's like saying that come Christmas, a magic dustpan flies in from the North Pole, led by eight flying cinder blocks. Who wants to stay up all night so they can see a bell? And why fly one in from Rome when they've got more bells than they know what to do with right here in Paris? That's the most implausible aspect of the whole story, as there's no way the bells of France would allow a foreign worker to fly in and take their jobs. That Roman bell would be lucky to get work cleaning up after a French bell's dog -and even then he'd need papers. It just didn't add up.

Nothing we said was of any help to the Moroccan student. A dead man with long hair supposedly living with her father, a leg of lamb served with palm fronds and chocolate. Confused and disgusted, she shrugged her massive shoulders and turned her attention back to the comic book she kept hidden beneath her binder. I wondered then if, without the language barrier, my classmates and I could have done a better job making sense of Christianity, an idea that sounds pretty far-fetched to begin with.

In communicating any religious belief, the operative word is faith, a concept illustrated by our very presence in that classroom. Why bother struggling with the grammar lessons of a six-year-old if each of us didn't believe that, against all reason, we might eventually improve? If I could hope to one day carry on a fluent conversation, it was a relatively short leap to believing that a rabbit might visit my home in the middle of the night, leaving behind a handful of chocolate kisses and a carton of menthol cigarettes. So why stop there? If I could believe in myself, why not give other improbabilities the benefit of the doubt? I accepted the idea that an omniscient God had cast me in his own image and that he watched over me and guided me from one place to the next. The virgin birth, the resurrection, and the countless miracles -my heart expanded to encompass all the wonders and possibilities of the universe.

A bell, though, that's f***ed up.

March 16, 2002
Got up earlier than anticipated and sloppily learned how to bathe in a teeny tiny tub; with no shower door or curtain to hold the splash in, it took some careful maneuvering and slow, cautious movements to avoid flooding the entire bathroom. We took the metro (what a tangled web!) from Rue Monge to Bin Hakim near the Eiffel Tower to meet up with our friends who were also visiting Paris. We shared a delicious, simple breakfast at a close-by patisserie: hot, flaky brioche, freshly squeezed OJ, and flavorful, rich strawberry yogurt (spoon not provided but readily pilfer-able at the cafes). The French sure know their pastries and dairy!

After sipping some cafe lattes at one of the ubiquitous Parisian cafes, we studied the convoluted metro map and managed to find our way to Place de la Madeline for a full day of shopping (hey, window-shopping counts as shopping) at Cartier (shiny baubles galore), Gucci (skinny, weak-looking French guards keeping a watchful eye on the expensive items), Prada (skinny, snooty French salesgirls keeping a disinterested eye on the patrons), and Hermes (skinny, sneering clients keeping a darting, head-to-toe eye on their rivals). After downing cafe au laits near Chanel, we browsed through the incredibly pricey gourmet food shops Fauchon and Hediard. After a stroll along the gray Seine river, we warmed ourselves with mochas at Maxim's (next door to Minim's). After imbibing coffee in various incarnations all day long, we paused at the swank, sumptuous Hotel de Crillon (single room runs about $650 a night) to use their polished, gleaming facilities. Relieved in style, we continued our exploration of the Champs Elysees from Place de la Concorde (where we saw these guys really getting into the spirit of St. Patrick's Day) to the Arc de Triomph. In no hurry, we paused at window displays, avoided stepping in any crotte de chien, and loitered for a while to watch an old man attempt to park his gargantuan Mercedes on the sidewalk (the same one we were standing on) and shoving and bumping lesser cars along the way. Poor little Smart Cars.

To avoid the drizzling rain, we ducked into and wandered around the glamorous George V Four Seasons Hotel as though we were contemplating dropping $800 on a "standard rate" room. Around 11 pm, our legs were wobbly and our tummies were grumbly. We meandered around aimlessly (is there any other way to meander?) for a while and ended up having a great meal at the nearby Italian restaurant Findi. It was close to midnight by the time we finished dinner. We did not feel like standing in the long lines for a taxi on the bustling, busy Champs Elysees, so we made a mad dash for the metro to catch the last train home. One yellow to pink connection later, we were back at Place Monge by 1 am, kicked up our weary feet, and slept the sleep of the dead.

Some friends of mine are planning a visit to Paris (that's the one in France, not the one in Kentucky -- I know, I know, common mistake). They asked me for some tips and I was going to forward my Paris travelogue to them when, much to my astonishment, I realized I never wrote one! So come join me on a trip down memory lane (much cheaper than an actual trip to the E.U.).

March 15, 2002
Lil Baji and I arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport around 7:30 pm and with surprisingly little hassle with respect to luggage, customs, and cabs, we checked into our little Left Bank hotel - The Residence Monge - by 8:30 pm. After surveying our room, which was somewhat larger than we expected after hearing the cautionary tales of how miniscule French accommodations were, we ventured out to find a place to eat. We took note of the location of various pharmacies (for future purchases of creamy lotions and pleasing potions), the Pantheon (yes, there is one in Rome and there is one in Paris), and ended up near the metro Cardinal Lemoine at a nice little Italian restaurant with huge corner windows (all the better for people watching).

We were nervous at first after watching the waiter rudely correct a bunch of boorish Americans sitting next to us aggressively demanding the check ("Eh? What? What iz zees you are sayeeing? Ze bill? Non. Not ze bill. Addition."). When he approached us, we smiled widely and ordered our meal quietly so as not to invite his wrath. To our relief, he was very friendly and even made a suggestion or two so that our meal was all that more pleasant. He drew a laugh out of us when he asked us the single question that people all over the world have asked us for years: "Are you twins?". Pleased with the nice restaurant experience, we rounded off the night with a brisk walk around our new neighborhood, the Latin Quarter, and a sound sleep on soft, floral sheets.

I am Kung Fu Master. I like to be in control of myself. I dislike crowds, especially crowds containing people trying to kill me. Even though I always win, I prefer to avoid fights if possible. What Video Game Character Are You?

A moment of silence as we mourn the lost hour today. Wearily sigh over the stolen magical time in the morning when you get to look at the clock, turn over, and keep sleeping. Diligently check the batteries in the smoke detectors. Carefully adjust all the clocks on the VCR, microwave, stereo, and various other gadgets (it seems as though almost every machine in the house displays the time) and try not to overshoot the digitally displayed minutes or else you'll have to run through the whole cycle again. Yep, it's Daylight Saving Time again. Except for you kooky Hoosiers out there, that is. I must admit, I do appreciate the longer days and sunnier evenings that will follow. If, however, you are really, vehemently, passionately against DST and feel that abolishing it will "save lives," then feel free to sign up and protest here.

Whaddayaknow. Smart Cars will be coming to the US in 2006 . . . just around the time that my poor, old, busticated Cressie will be ready to be put out to pasture.

Due to popular demand (that's you, Oz), today I present you with an entry about the rich, thick, ooey-gooey Congo Bars. Made by mummy. They are yummy. In my tummy.

My mother first came across the recipe when, in the late 80's, the Clark County Medical Society Auxiliary decided to compile a collection of favorite recipes from various members of the local medical community. Entitled "Just What the Doctor Ordered," the recipes are varied, but neither necessarily healthy for you (Microwave Fudge with an entire can of sweetened condensed milk) nor always appetizing (Savory Meatballs include 1 lb. hot sausage served with a jar of apple butter - blech!). Some recipes include exotic ingredients (1/2 cup of cinnamon redhots?!) and some are almost joke-like and include stuff you might find in the dark recesses of the hardest to reach cabinet in the kitchen (Seasoned Oyster Crackers: Pour crackers in a large bowl. Pour in 1c. oil and mix. Sprinkle on 1 pkg. Ranch Dressing and mix. Stir thoroughly until oil is absorbed). My mother's contributions, of course, are wonderful and delicious.

Although a novice at first (as are we all), my mother has become quite an accomplished epicurean. She has always been fond of experimenting with recipes, whether through curiosity ("Well, the recipe calls for nuts, but perhaps chocolate chips would be better") or through necessity ("What am I going to do with all of these bushels of zucchinis from the garden?"). Not all experiments are successes ("The lasagna recipe requires tomato sauce, but I don't have any. Oh well. Tomato ketchup should work just as well.") But for the most part, her instincts are right and true and have kept us happy and healthy for years.

One dark and stormy night, as the lightening flashed and the thunder clapped, my mother whipped on her lab apron, polished her gleaming cooking utensils, flared up the oven, and altered the recipe for Congo Squares by replacing the 2/3 c. margarine with an equivalent amount of cream cheese. And lo! Congo Bars (as we now know them) were created! And they were good! Seriously. Find out for yourself.

2/3 margarine or cream cheese if you dare
1 box brown sugar (fresh and soft. dark brown if you like gooey.)
3 eggs
2-1/2 cups flour
2-1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
12 oz. package chocolate chips (dark chocolate is the best)

Combine all the ingredients and bake for 30 - 35 minutes in a greased 9x13 pan at 350 degrees. Cool and cut into squares. Call Baji and invite her to share.

Too dreary and chilly and dark to post today. So I'll just redirect you here for new material and go make some hot chocolate now.

I. Can. Not. Wait. For. This. Movie.

So close! I've almost completed "The Mezzanine" by Nicholson Baker. I borrowed this book from my cousin what seems to be ages ago. At 135 pages, you'd think I would have plowed through the slender novel in a heartbeat. The deceptively simple premise of the narrator's ride on an escalator and his contemplation of everyday actions (tying his shoes, opening a carton of milk, performing bathroom rituals) is so very engaging and entertaining, but there are a number of reasons why it is taking me so long to finish the book.

Every little tangent (often in the form of gargantuan footnotes that can, at times, flow over the course of several pages) deserves attention. No joke, the passage on the safety of escalators produced a four-page footnote focusing on grooves. The grooves of the escalator. The grooves left by an ice-skater. The grooves of a record. Each example he gives instills in me the need to meditate upon the subject, quietly turn it over in my head, and then next thing I know, I'm napping.

Every little observation triggers a recognition of my own experiences and I find my eyes drifting away from the page as my mind rolls over my own memories. Take, for example, this appraisal of escalator protocol:

Often in department stores I would get stuck behind two motionless passengers and want to seize their shoulders and urge them on, like an instructor at an Outward Bound program, saying, "Annette, Bruce - this isn't the Land of the Lotus-Eaters. You're on a moving stairway. Feel your own effortful, bobbing steps melt into the inexhaustible meliorism of the escalator. Watch the angles of floors and escalator ceilings above and around you alter their vanishing points at a syrupy speed that doesn't correlate with what your legs are telling you they are doing. Don't you see that when you two stop, two abreast, you are not only blocking me? Don't you see that you indicate to all those who are right now stepping onto the escalator at the bottom and looking timidly up for inspiration that if they bound eagerly up they too will catch up with us and be thwarted in their advance? They were wavering whether to stand or to climb, and you just sapped their wills! You made them choose to waste their time! And they in turn impede those who follow them - thus you perpetuate a pattern of sloth and congestion that may persist for hours. Can't you see that?" Sometimes I rudely halted at the step just below the one the pair stood on, my face a caricature of pointless impatience, tailgating them until (often with startled sounds and offered apologies I didn't deserve) they doubled up to let me pass. Headway was easier to establish going down, because the rapid thump of my steps would scare them over to one side.

I read this passage and then started thinking about my own escalator experiences: how, when I encounter these kinds of two-on-one-step people blatantly ignoring the signs stating that passengers wishing to stand should do so on the right so that those wishing to pass may do so on the left, Fezzik's booming "Everybody MOOOOOVE!" or Ed's "Turn to the RIGHT!" always echoes in my mind.

Every little witty turn of phrase and clever description demands my appreciation. I rinsed my glasses quickly under the tap, eager to be able to study my shoes in detail once again; I polished the lenses with the fifth paper towel, making bribe-me, bribe-me finger motions over the two curved surfaces until they were dry. Wha? "bribe-me, bribe me"? Oh, I get it! Hee hee!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have 30 pages left. Oz, you'll get the book back sometime in the fall.

Sure, I've got a firehouse nearby with its fire engines wailing at all hours. Granted, I've got a bi-polar, hateful neighbor (we call her 'Crazy Daisy') upon whose sighting I take six flights of stairs to avoid riding in the elevator with her and risk being yelled at or attacked. Of course, I've got the streets peppered with potholes formed by godzilla, the creaky wooden floors that second as a cheap alarm system, and the rats and roaches scuttling about in the cracked driveway at night. But at least my front yard doesn't look like this.

Time for The Simpsons. Tonight's guest voice: Buffy! To be followed by the show I've come to love to hate: Alias. But before I go, here is tonight's sweet treat. Enjoy.

Mmmmmm, is there anything yummier than cool spicy tuna rolls from Sushi-Ko on a warm, spring day? I submit that there is not!

(later that day)
Well, unless it is, of course, a nicely chilled home-made brownie!

Fun with Dubya! Clickety Click Click . . .

This weekend I saw Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Although I approached the movie with some trepidation because I was not in the mood to see Jim Carrey in his signature super-spaz mode, I was pleasantly surprised by his subdued performance and really enjoyed Charlie Kaufman's latest endeavor. I can imagine Charlie (yes, I'm on a first name basis with him) pitching the story-idea: "It's like Memento but without all the murder." The plot follows a backwards timeline much like Memento and Following which leaves the viewer trying to piece together the puzzle (how did the couple meet at first, why did the romance sour, what's up with that creepy, tall hobbit) after the movie is over. Me likey. For another blog-review, check out upyernoz's March 6th entry.

How can this be? This city lives and breathes protests. It seems as though every other weekend, there is a rally, a march, or a benefit concert to attend to represent your opinion on anything from IMF and the World Bank to the government's unfairness to tobacco farmers.

Today is the one-year anniversary of the Iraq war. I walked down to the White House in search of a demonstration in which to participate. To my disbelief, the only activity near the White House that I observed (other than the packs of roving school children touring the area) was the same teeny tiny protest that has been waged against nuclear weapons every single day since 1981. Otherwise, nothing, nada, kuch be nayh. Even Israel is hosting a protest! How can D.C. be missing from the list?!

In honor of the one-year anniversary of the invasion of Iraq, I have added a handy reference button to indicate the appropriate level of terror under which the nation should be.

(idea gleefully stolen from Gunnar).

Something to look forward to:

Infestation of Brood X Cicadas Forecast
Millions of cicadas are expected to infest the nation's capital and parts of Maryland and Virginia this spring. Periodical cicadas, who've been underground for 17 years, will tunnel out of the ground, fling their winged bodies through the air and sound off day and night. Bug experts say their coming will be of biblical proportions.

Some cicadas emerge annually in the eastern United States. Others come out every two to 13 years. But this variety, known as Brood X, invades every 17 years.

The last time they covered the Washington area was in 1987, when remnants of cicadas covered roadways and sidewalks. Residents pulled them out of their hair. And the bugs drove some outdoor events, such as weddings and graduations, inside.

When exactly they emerge will depend on the weather.

The Smithsonian Institution's National Museum of Natural History is planning a cicada exhibit in May, complete with sounds and live specimens.

From the Washington Post.

Cold. So cold. Need to make some hot chocolate, snuggle under my lemon yellow blankie, and watch the new episode of Sopranos. I'm pleased that Steve Buscemi has joined the crew. The blue language will match my blue lips perfectly. Shame, Shame, Budi Mame...

The countdown until the finale of Netflix has begun. I've just finished watching one of my last three DVDs -- "American Splendor". An interesting concept -- an autobiographical account of the comic book writer Harvey Pekar's rise to fame told in a variety of media such as comic book art, live footage, clips of old tv shows, and interviews with the actual Pekar -- but the movie seemed so roughly cobbled together that it detracted from my enjoyment of it. That, and I liked it better the first time I saw it when it was called "Crumb" (although, truthfully, I didn't like that movie as much as I did "Ghost World". Now that was a good movie, especially with that soundtrack which included a great, bouncy tune by Mohammed Rafi called "Jaan Pehechaan Ho").

KA-BLOOM! The sun is shining, the trees and flowers are blossoming, and although there is a prediction for snow tomorrow, it is one-layer warm outside today. Happy Ides of March!

Lil Baji and I went to see The Strokes last night. It was the first show on their US tour and was completely sold out. Who bought all of the tix? The Abercrombie & Fitch, backwards baseball-hatted crowd. The wearing-the-band's-t-shirt-at-the-band's-concert crew. The all-ages, all-smoking, all-posing, all-annoying crush. If I hadn't gotten the tix for free (thx, LB!), I would have gone to the Black Cat instead. At least there, I have my personal space, my personal couch in the back, and my personal homeless man to greet me with the familiar, singsongy mantra "Black Cat, Black Cat, please help the homeless."

Back by popular demand (and by 'popular demand' I mean 'just because'), newly digitized and uploaded with pix galore is my Iceland/Denmark travelogue for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy and check out the pix gallery at the end of the story (if you make it that far).

Another lovely weekend. Today, I took a walk through the National Zoo, which is practically in my backyard. In the summertime, with the windows open, I can hear the monkeys in the morning. These are the people in my neighborhood, in my neighborhood, in my neighborhooooooood . . .

New Morrisey album, You are the Quarry, coming out in May. Best track title on the album? "How Can Anybody Possibly Know How I Feel?" Classic Woe Is Me, Morrisey.

Hmmm, what if the Simpsons were Desi . . . (thought bubble)

(thx, LB!)

Some girls are bigger than others,
some girls are bigger than others,
some girls' mothers are bigger than other girls' mothers...

do you have "Dunlop's Disease" or are you the porridge that Goldilocks chose?

greetings stop updated travelblog stop stop by for a visit stop

Yay! March! Basketball throws some 'bows and shoves football off the tv court, Mom celebrates her birthday, and hints of crummy old winter taking its much anticipated leave are in the air. The best thing about March is that pretty soon, the city will dress itself in a beautiful, fantastic gown of delicate, dizzying, darling cherry blossoms. Spring should be shouting its official arrival in a few weeks as the Yoshino cherry trees explode into puffs of white and pale pink blossoms. The shivering branches shower the cars and pedestrians beneath them with gorgeous blooms that dreamily float along the gentle breezes as they please. Domo arigato, Japan!

Today was a gloriously, warm, sunny day (thanks, Allah, you're the best!). Almost 70 degrees, slight breeze, and puffy, white, Simpsons-like clouds. I decided to go for a walk. My 'hood is Adams Morgan, home of the second largest Salvadoran population in the U.S., a multitude of ethnic restaurants (D.C. has the most Ethiopian restaurants than any other city in the U.S. and especially in AdMo), and the dearly departed Tik Tok Easy Shop.

On a beautiful day like today, the streets are crawling with dog-walkers, window-shoppers, and exercise-freaks. Traversing the heart of the Latino community necessarily means going past a few of the more vocal elements of the area as well. So, I girded myself with my shield and headed out. Seriously, without a walking companion or my Rio, it can be difficult to enjoy a stroll through my neighborhood what with the "aye, mami, que pasa?" and the "que bonita! habla espanol?" coming from all directions. While my eyes roll, my jaw tightens, and my pace quickens, all that runs through my head at these times is a line from the Fugazi song "Suggestion": Why can't i walk down a street free of suggestion? Why can't i walk down a streeeeeeeet (oh yeah) free of suggestion? But with a handy dandy mp3-player (fake cell phone calls work in a pinch too), I am left alone to enjoy my walkabout hassle-free. Yay, technology!

Ok, no point in posting the same stuff on two blogs, so if you want to read about the further adventures of Super-T, then go to my travelblog. Otherwise, well, if a picture is worth a thousand words, then enjoy reading this:

Come see Lil Baji's latest crush.

Today's entry is a simple thanks to Abez for polishing up my travelblog and making it all shiny and fancy. She is abezing! Hip, hip, hooray!!!

1.20.04
"Wake up, baby dolls," my dad sang to us. It was still dark outside and I was disoriented simply by the fact that it was my father's voice waking me up rather than those rabid, flea-bitten mongrels next door. The ancient routine was followed as Dad hovered in the doorway to see if there was any movement forthcoming and when the only observable motion was us burrowing deeper under the covers, he would repeat the wake-up call until one of us (me) got up. Today was the day we were going to visit "the village" which is really a misnomer because it covers several villages but the sun was not even out yet and it was too early in the day to debate semantics.

We had stick-to-your-ribs porridge (liberally sprinkled with sugar and full-fat milk) and some chai (equally sweet and fatty) for breakfast to carry us through the drive to Lala Musa, about 90 miles southeast of Islamabad. The drive was smooth and pleasant with my uncle as pilot and tour guide and me as co-pilot (with no map, no directions, and no sense of where we were) to provide the questions and the chatter (nod to Brian Regan). Along the way, we passed Pajeros, Mehrans, Margallas, and brightly decorated buses that are commonly seen trundling down the streets.


Occasionally, we would see a line of goats being lavishly treated to a buffet of rich, leafy greens - little did they know that Eid Ul Adha was right around the corner and that their V.I.P. treatment was going to end in an R.I.P. ceremony! Poor kid.
When we arrived in Lala Musa to pick up my aunt, we were treated to our second breakfast and had more chai, roasted chilgozas (pinenuts), and these delicious sesame-themed, brown sugar-sweetened, cracker-like thingies (can you guess that I don't know the name?).

We drove through the district of Gujrat which, despite its dusty roads and equally dusty children, is incredibly lush and green thanks to the irrigation provided by the Jhelum River and Chenab River, two of the five rivers of the Punjab which merge to flow into the Indus. My uncle deftly navigated the car down the roads that were becoming less paved and more ditch-laden until we reached Ladian, the Bhatti family's ancestral village. We paid our respects at Aziz Bhatti's grave, Inna lillahi wa inna ileihi rajioon (We are from God and to Him we are returning). Uncle Aziz, my grandfather's brother, was honored with the highest military award in Pakistan, the Nishan-e-Haider, for his part in the 1965 war with India (here's a detailed account).

We strolled around my great-grandfather's house where my father and aunt shared their memories of the place: there's where Babuji used to sit us down and teach us; this room was shared by two families; all of the cousins would line up and sleep here on the rooftop during the summer. I waved hello to the neighbors - Madame Water Buffalo and Donkey Sahib. We visited a nearby school and were allowed to peek into several classes where the uber-obedient, neatly-uniformed children would leap to their feet and stand quietly at attention while the principal introduced us (even though it was time for recess and they were itching to run outside). The school was very well-run, had a strict curriculum, was divided into houses (lil baji is from Hufflepuff!) and even had its own mascot seen here in repose-



Over lunch at our relatives' house, we listened to the on-going debate over whether the village of Ladian (site of the famous Aziz Bhatti's grave, access to a major roadway, near a good school) or the village of Bhurch (bigger population, on the route from Lala Musa to Ladian, large mosque and good school) was better. We then called on more relatives and friends in Bhurch where we were running (and by 'running' I mean 'briskly walking') from house to house, poking our heads in to say hello, and taking a quick tour of the public school (Fun Fact: in Pakistani/British terms, a private school is a private or fee-paying school and a public school can also be a private school. Whaaa?). The sun was starting to set and we did not relish the idea of our fragile car swerving in the dark to avoid a barreling truck and then falling into one of the massive craters on the dirt road that led back to Lala Musa, so we said our goodbyes, I got a quick motorcycle ride out of the village, and we headed back through Kharian.

Stay tuned for the next episode: Well, not much, but wasn't today's entry enough to satisfy you?! Honestly!

Sorry, y'all, been away. Back now, but too sleepy to blog. So, instead, I'm going to steal from upyernoz and let all y'all (that's the plural of y'all, you know) take this yankee/dixie quiz. Ah'm 65% dixie (born in the U.K. of Paki parents, raised in Louahvull, and edumacated in St. Looey). Yeee-hawww!

(cue the song "Cletus, the slack-jawed yokel")

We will return to our regularly scheduled entries after a message from our sponsors.

1.19.04
Nestled at the foot of the Margalla hills, the capital city of Islamabad is neatly if not logically divided into eight zones: administrative, diplomatic, residential, educational, industrial, commercial, rural and green areas. I remember a cleaner, calmer, less traffic-snarl-ridden city but these days the population is up, the pollution is rampant, and the tension is high. "Islamabad, the Beautiful" but not everyone thinks so. This is not to say that the whole town has gone to the dogs . . . those maddening, barking, insane dogs. Each sector has its own shopping area, some pretty public parks, and beautiful mosques.

My grandfather lives in the elite neighborhood of Sector E-7, home to the opulent, jaw-dropping, incredible Faisal Mosque which holds the title of the largest mosque in the world (Baghdad started one up, but, well, you know how things are going on there these days). My father, sister, and I took a long, early morning stroll around E-7, passing by several palatial residences - including one Abdul Qadeer Khan whose house was the only one with flowers growing across the street near the guard's hut - on our way to Faisal Mosque.



Completed in 1986, King Faisal Mosque (named after Saudi Arabia's King Faisal) features a large prayer hall, a small mausoleum for Muhammad Zia-ul-Haq and four sky-scraping minarets (which, if memory serves me correctly, sports real gold crescents on each minaret). We turned the corner and saw a sheep grazing on a grassy slope. We turned another corner and saw an enormous banyan tree that had been sorely abused and burnt up by some ignorant youths - look closely and you can see my father and sister on the left.

We had a pleasant walk and followed it up with a pleasant trip to my aunt's beauty salon DePilex. My sister and I were treated to soothing, cleansing facials and when we were glowing and refreshed, my cousin picked us up and took us shopping. Eight khussas, three chappals, and one antique collection of tiles later, we came home and relaxed. In fact, we relaxed so much that some of us fell asleep while I was recounting the storyline of The House of Sand and Fog. The rest of us eventually followed suit and we all napped the remainder of the afternoon away. We rounded off the evening with Abez and Owl at the hip, funky "CJ's" (short for Civil Junction) in Sector F-7, sipping cappuccinos, savoring ice creams, and snickering over their humorous menu entries.

1.18.04
Damn those hellhounds! Damn them all to . . . well, hell, I suppose. With confirmed sightings of jackals and wild boars in the area, I was less surprised, but no less irritated, by the early morning doggie alarms coming from the house next door. Once again, I resigned myself to being fully awake and slid down the banister (it's tradition!) to read until the rest of the family arose and prepared for our outing to Murree. Even though the sun was brightly shining and it was a pleasant spring-like day in Islamabad, we bundled up in warm layers. We boarded the coaster my uncle secured for the twelve of us and were on our way (fun fact: Pakistanis call the hybrid mini-van/bus a "coaster" which seemed more like a roller coaster than a smooth and steady vehicle by the time one reaches the twisted, treacherous, nausea-inducing, narrow roads to Murree).

Approximately 40 miles (or 60 km for you metric-heads) northeast of Islamabad and over 7000 feet (2100 meters) high at the foot of the Himalayan Mountains, the Queen of the Hills, as Murree is allegedly known (competing with India's Darjeeling for the title), was once a 19th century hillstation, or resort, for British troops garrisoned on the Afghan frontier in Peshawar. Murree is now a popular tourist (both domestic and international) destination for people seeking cooler climes, beautiful vistas of the forested hills, and the possibility of sneaky clouds slinking through the windows.

We wound our way up the slender streets and watched the birds of prey (hawks? vultures? kites?) tilt and wheel at eye-level. We made a brief stop in Bhurban, about 9 km beyond Murree, to stretch our legs, visit my uncle's latest construction project, and take advantage of the panoramic view of the snow-capped mountains. After standing around and shivering for a while, we scrambled back into the coaster and returned to Murree to seek refuge and lunch at my aunt's father's summer house. Because most visitors come to Murree in the summer to escape the heat and dust and humidity of points south, the house had been unoccupied and therefore unheated by the time we reached it. Still donning our coats, hats, scarves, and the occasional gloves-sans-fingers, we alternated huddling around the free-standing heater and positioning ourselves to be in the path of the direct sunlight streaming in through the wide windows. We devoured the steaming prathas, curry chicken, and blessedly hot tea that we brought along. We took turns washing our hands in what must have been glacial water and then walked around outside to appreciate the eye-candy of the tall pine trees, the clear blue sky, and the Kashmiri mountain range nearby.



By late-afternoon, we drove down to the "Mall" which is Murree's popular strip of clothing stores, restaurants, and tourist shops. Half of our group ventured out to browse among the throng of people bustling along the sidewalks and main street while the other, more sensible, half remained cozily ensconced within the warm coaster. We raced the setting sun down the hills and reached Islamabad by nightfall.

Stay tuned for the next episode: Girls' Day Out.

1.17.04
There were wolves baying at the moon and angry, I-mean-business barks and growls piercing the night. A moment of disorientation and quiet descended and then was shattered by further yips and yaps and yelps. According to the Winnie-the-Pooh clock on the wall that had been keeping time with non-synchronic beats, it was 3:30 a.m. -- there's a 3:30 in the morning now? Several thoughts occurred to me: I was in Islamabad (even if my circadian rhythms were still in the U.S.); I was now fully awake with no possibility of sinking back to sleep; and the guard dogs next door were mighty upset about something (possibly intruders, possibly wild boars, possibly a threatening leaf on a tree branch) and wanted the whole neighborhood to know it. Apparently, the whole neighborhood (my sister included) successfully managed to ignore or block out the incessant barking as I was the only one creeping around the house looking for snacks and a comfortable place to read. On her way to medical school classes, by 6 a.m., Chai found Professor Baji, in the lounge, with a candlestick. Well, replace "candlestick" with "Into Thin Air by Krakauer" and you win.

After a hearty breakfast, it was time for lunch. We went to my grandfather's house where we were wildly entertained by my mother arguing with her father over the precise events that occurred on the day umpteen years ago when the principal of her school called my grandfather in for a discussion over my mother's behavior. We lingered over lunch and pored over family photographs ranging from the early 1900s to the early 2000s.



I heard a strange buzzing coming from my bag and it wasn't until I cautiously and with great trepidation opened it that I realized the sound was from my borrowed cell phone. My uncle had lent me a cell phone to call or 'to text' (a perfectly cromulent verb nowadays) our tech-savvy family in order to make plans, call ahead, and goof off. It was our first full day in town and I was already receiving phone calls!

The call was from my cousin who, cognizant of our limited time in town, offered her services to chauffeur us to the shops at F-7's Jinnah Super, F-6's Supermarket, and F-6's Kohsar Market for some whirlwind browsing. Driving back and forth, we saw familiar friends (Mr. Books! Book Fair! I've missed you!) and hated enemies (although I can't remember if the family ban was proclaimed against United Bakery or Prince Bakers). Mentally marking the cool clothing boutique Khaadi for a return visit, we returned home for dinner and half a game of Monopoly that involved quite a bit of yelling, cheating, fining, and shady transactions. I think I won.

Stay tuned for the next episode: Freezing in the Foothills of the Himalayas.

Dear Constant Reader,
Here is a rough draft of my Pakistan travelogue for your enjoyment and review. Just turn your time machines back one month and join me . . .

1.14.04 - 1.16.04
After suffering through middle-row syndrome on the entire twenty-two hour voyage from DC to Pakistan, we reached Islamabad early Friday morning safe and sound, albeit quite disheveled and sleep-deprived. Upon arrival, our parents, my grandfather, and my uncle greeted us at the gate and as we had no checked-in luggage to wait for (viva carry-ons!), whisked us home where we were met by the rest of the family. Stomachs rumbling from lack of food, we were treated to deliciously hot omelets (the healthy vegetables balance out the glistening oil and cheese, or so we try to convince ourselves) and strong tea. Heads buzzing from lack of sleep, we napped for a few hours and rinsed the travel grime off using the good old fashioned, familiar pink plastic bucket with dipper that we have used for nigh on a decade or two.

Later that afternoon, more grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins came to visit and filled us in on all the family gossip and politics. The lounge could have doubled as a train station with so many people coming and going. Each person talked over the next, attempting to capture our bleary attention, to get his or her story told and voice heard, and to rush to share the latest news before someone beat them to it. We spent the whole day indoors, eating several meals at the huge Lazy Susan table in the dining room, meeting family and new friends (that's when I met Abez and Owl) taking several naps in various beds, and trying and failing to make definite and substantive plans for the remainder of the visit. It was good to be back home.



I know. Not much to report for this day. But it gets better, trust me!

Just saw Mystic River, a somber, gritty movie about three men who suffered/witnessed a horrific event in their childhood in blue-collar Boston and how each of them was shaped by that event later in life. Not a light, fluffy, family movie. I seem to be drawn to these kinds of serious, dark, troublesome movies lately. I don't know whether it's that I'm getting older or if it's because so many of the movies out there are crap. On the other hand, I am looking forward to the new Ben Stiller/Owen Wilson venture, Starsky & Hutch, so perhaps all hope is not lost.

Howzaboutthat. Even Alton Brown of Food Network fame (host of the show Good Eats that I struggle to stay awake until 11:30 -- conveniently right after the Daily Show -- to watch) has his own blog.

Seriously folks, how hard is it to follow the instructions "cut my hair straight across, no curves, no layers, just straight across"? It has been four months since my last confession, er, haircut and my mop was looking mighty straggly. I went to my local (and cheapest) haircutting salon ("salon" said with heavy irony) and put my name down for a simple haircut (sans shampoo and blow-dry). I waited. And waited. And went to the library next door for a while and then waited. 45 minutes later, I was finally allowed to grace the barbershop throne.

I carefully and slowly told the hairdresser how I wanted my hair cut. Straight across (insert appropriate horizontal chopping hand gesture). No Farah Faucett Feathers, no trendy "the Rachel", and above all, no mullet. After several sharp yanks, agonizing head-tilts, and a near otoplasty, my hair was cut -- in a "U" shape. What the Shaq is this!? I argued with the hairmesser (stupid bint!) for a while and then just shut up and left. This is the fourth or fifth time this has happened and you'd think I would have learned my lesson by now. Please join me in banning StupidCuts. You won't regret it and your support is much appreciated.

Ok, in honor of Talk Like a Pirate Day (only 221 days away!) as well as Johnny Depp snagging an Oscar nomination for his enjoyable work in "Pirates of the Caribbean", here are the lyrics to the song "Sailing, Sailing" which goes out to my good buddy Abez.

New clip by rathergood.com -- singing pandas. My favorite is still the punk kittens. And the emo orangutans. They're both favorites!

My visit to Florida is coming to an end, and none too soon it seems. Granted, I'll miss the 80 degree weather. But I can do without the news reports of kidnapped and murdered 11 year old girl, good ol' fashioned executions, and exploding tankers on the highway; although I do admit I enjoyed the story involving the Cuban camionautas -- or truckonauts -- entering the U.S. on a floating '59 Buick (their second attempt after they failed earlier in a floating '51 Chevy pickup).

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It will be good to be back in D.C. and the Vatos Locos and STC, the exploding manholes, and the latest threat to the city (dude, anthrax is so five-minutes ago -- today's winner is ricin!)

I had Jumma Nimaz today in the itsy bitsy mosque in Port Charlotte, FL. It was small and clean and one feature I really liked was that the men's section was next to, not in front of, the women's section, sort of at a diagonal. Everyone could hear the khutbah, everyone got a view of the Imam, and everyone got some sunlight. Werrrry nice. They have plans to build a new mosque and I just hope they keep this design.

Emirates spanks PIA. Seriously. The boarding is orderly and efficient (no mad dash for a seat in which one will be sitting for umpteen hours). The rules on carry-on bags are strictly enforced (which means you won't have overstuffed, monstrous luggage crammed into the overhead compartments posing as 'carry-ons' and hanging threateningly over you Sword of Damocles-like). The in-flight entertainment is varied and enjoyable (your choice of 5 movies, 5 tv shows, and 10 video games including a trivia challenge where you can compete against your fellow passengers).

Best of all is the new feature that allows the passenger to tune her individual screen to the 'forward camera' so that she can get a pilot's-eye view of the take-off and landing and the 'downward camera' so that she can see the runway, the rivers, the lakes, the ocean, and the snow-capped mountains as the plane flies over the face of the earth. The flight departed and arrived on time, my luggage came intact, and I wasn't hassled by The (Paki) Man. British Airways is still probably my favorite (erm, I mean favourite), but for flights to Pak, Emirates Zindabad! Ok, commercial announcement is over. Now back to your regularly scheduled programs.

What's your favorite airline?

You are 45% geek

You are a geek liaison, which means you go both ways. You can hang out with normal people or you can hang out with geeks which means you often have geeks as friends and/or have a job where you have to mediate between geeks and normal people. This is an important role and one of which you should be proud. In fact, you can make a good deal of money as a translator. Normal: Tell our geek we need him to work this weekend. You [to Geek]: We need more than that, Scotty. You'll have to stay until you can squeeze more outta them engines! Geek [to You]: I'm givin' her all she's got, Captain, but we need more dilithium crystals! You [to Normal]: He wants to know if he gets overtime.

Take the Polygeek Quiz at Thudfactor.com

Although I think I should get some extra points for taking this quiz at 7am. Yikes! (via upyernoz, a bigger geek than i -- in fact, I would think that anyone with a Weird Al VHS should get even more extra-geek points.)

So I'm in Florida right now with my folks, taking naps, strolling around the golf course, and slowly navigating a big-ass car through traffic. It's about 5:30 and dinner is almost ready. I might get used to this.

Many thanks to Abez, webmeister extraordinaire, for the new and improved look to this joint!

Eid Mubarak, Y'all!