Our new friend Sue

We made a new friend on Saturday - with the potential of having a new "couple" friend. Her name is Sue and she and her hubby, Steve, make up the Hansen realty team..."a house-sold name." When we walked into her office, wearing our best Fairfield County clothes, she was waiting for us with folders full of essential (and grown up) documents. First, there were the lists of houses she had printed out for us to look at. We had sent her some houses we found on the internet and she printed out a few others she thought we might like. Then she had some papers on the town itself, a pamphlet on the school system and a map. After talking to her about our long list of what we are looking for - 1. Somewhere other than the parents/in-laws - we headed out in her spotless Subaru.

We liked Sue because having lived in Norwalk for 30 years, she knew alot about each neighborhood and she was on the money every time she said something like, "great house but you'll hate the location," or "great neighborhood but the house needs some work." (That and she was hosting a dinner later that night where she had to cook some absurd amount of ribs but acted like she could ride around with us all day.) Since it was our first time out, we didn't rule anything out but when we rolled up on a house that looked great from the pictures, we realized what she meant by the location...I-95 was in the backyard. It was just off the exit. When we got to the house in the great neighborhood that needed work, I just kept wondering how much work it could actually need. "I'm telling you, it needs alot of work. I mean ALOT of work," she warned. She wasn't kidding. If this were 1952, this could've been "the one." From the outside, even the mint green ranch with black shudders and glass wall to the right of the front door masked the time warp we were about to enter. We walked into the living room which had one wall covered in goldish-brown wall paper with giant flowers all tangled up in one another. The remaining three walls were a lovely brown wood paneling. I forget what the rug was like because I was too distracted by all the paneling and trying to focus on all the "potential" Sue was selling.

From the living room, I entered the hallway. The walls were now a white wood paneling. I tried to escape in one of the bedrooms, more brown paneling. The same in the second bedroom. Surely there would be relief in the kitchen. Down the paneled hallway into the kitchen. The gold counter tops offset the cabinets that were the same brown as the walls. There was no relief in the dining room or the screened in porch off the kitchen but, at least there was a screened in porch. There was also a nice backyard with a garden but after all that paneling the green was too pretty and hurt my eyes. As I was making my way back to the front door to get some fresh air and noticed a door with a small sign on it. It read: "Original hard wood floors up here too!" The handwriting was neat and desperate looking. I took the bait. On top of the "original hard wood floors" was a burnt orange and green shag carpet. There were two rooms upstairs but they were small and had slanted ceilings from the roof. When I came back down, I was surprised to see George and Sue still in the house and even more surprised to hear him asking about how much too take down the paneling and pull up the carpets. Sue kept saying that we wouldn't have to do everything at once, just figure out what you could live with for a little while and move that to the bottom of the list. I could live with my parents for a little while longer.

The highlights of our trip though, included looking at the house George deemed, "our new home" after looking at pictures on the internet and the house that I thought would be "the one." His house was first. He liked it because in the pictures, it seemed very "open." It also seemed like someone actually had lived there in the past 6 months too, from the picture. We pulled up to a field of tall grass but forgave the owners for skipping a mow now and then. When we got out and approached the front door, the pictures seemed more and more like a creation of Photoshop. The vinyl siding had holes and cracks in it, the gutters were overflowing with leaves and debris, and generally needed some love. It didn't get much better on the inside. It wasn't until we left later that I realized what creeped me out about the place. It wasn't the room painted turquoise green on the bottom and bluish-lavender on the top with a thick Pepto pink band between the two. It was the blood red dining room, it was the closets. All the doors had been removed from the closets. The closet in the all was replaced by a sheet that had been thrown over a tension rod. To me, this seemed very cult-ish. Like those people in Waco who died wearing the black sneakers, I could just imagine the "leader" banning closet doors and maybe holding some sort of closet door sacrifice out back by the jacuzzi on the run down deck. The house wasn't completely empty but clearly no one had lived there for sometime. When we got back in the car we realized that the sale of the house was "subject to bank approval" which Sue explained meant it was probably a foreclosure. A foreclosed cult-house? No thanks.

...Not that my pick was any better. From the picture, mine looked like a cute old farmhouse. It was dark red and looked like it had a small front yard (which means there must be a backyard, right?). Using her GPS system, Sue got us to the right road but when we heard the gentle computer voice say "turn left, you are at your destination," and we stayed straight, we realized we passed it. We turned around in the neighbors driveway, that led to their mansion, and pulled into my house that did not look like it did in the pictures. The "small" front yard was actually more of a walkway. The house was built on the side of a hill so the backyard was the hill that was filled with trees. The living area was built into the ground so it was very dark and felt like a basement. The cute built-in book cases were not actually built into the wall and cheap looking and the cozy fire place was rather tiny and did nothing to brighten up the place. Not what I had in mind.

But it wasn't all bad. We saw some other nice places but nothing we fell in love with and had to have. Most of them had one or two things that made us hesitate - a small kitchen, no yard, small rooms, a weird layout...things we could probably live with but we want to see more. There is no rush. My mother seems to love having all our stuff around the house she is constantly trying to de-clutter and my father seems to love when we take the trash out on the night before, instead of the morning when, the garbage men come. (This way the animals can get into it and dump it all over the lawn.) And we really appreciate how they've embraced the 21st century with their rotary phones and VHS VCRs. Good times.

Food Crisis? What food crisis?

I suppose Milford is no different from Bangalore in terms of finding things to do. It's just that here, life on the streets is pretty boring so when you go out, it really is just about the destination whereas in Bangalore, it was more about the journey. There are no random fires on the sides of the road, no livestock roaming the streets, no people walking or carrying anything on their heads and aside from the occasional paper bag or napkin, no real garbage anywhere. No one is selling anything on the sidewalks and all the cars stay neatly in their lanes. It's so quiet, you almost forget you are in the car. And where are all the people? For a culture which seems to pride itself on having obscene amounts of stuff, there appears to be a lack of people who really need any of it. (This is funny to me because before we left, I would've said that there were way too many people in the US - too many on the roads, too many in the stores, too many at the malls.)

So driving has become less interesting which I guess, now that I am actually doing the driving, is a good thing. Oh, how far I've fallen. I'm doing my own driving; I actually had to scrub the bathroom myself; and I've actually been doing some dishes. My poor, delicate, manicured hands. Can Palmolive save me?

If it can't, there is surely some other product that will claim to soften my hands while I do dishes. There must be. I've been to the grocery stores. I've been nearly everyday. When you are searching for exciting destinations in Milford, your options consist of stores - grocery, "drug," clothing, electronics...the list goes on. (As it turns out, all that stuff they try to get you to buy on TV, can also be found in stores - even when they say it can't. "Exclusive television offer" is just another way of saying, "wouldn't you rather just buy this must-have item now rather than waste your money on gas going to the store, you lazy but wise couch potato?") So I've been going to the grocery store.

I think I am drawn there because while I marvel at and mock all the excesses, I am secretly excited about all the shelves full of options. Either that, or I'm just so darn taken with the cleanliness, it makes me feel like I'm going somewhere special. What is difficult for me to understand is how a store half the size of any given Super Stop & Shop is twice as dirty. In India, even at the new Spar Hypermarket (the closest thing to the Super Stop & Shop), most of the items on the shelf were dusty, sticky or dented and mangled. I guess this has more to do with the shipping of goods than the store itself because in all fairness, there were plenty of times when I would be pushing my mini-shopping cart and have to be careful not to hit the women on their knees with rags, cleaning the floor. Not that the appearance of cleanliness and freshness are necessarily dependent on one another. While my spinach may be already washed and bagged, it most likely is coming from California or somewhere thousands of miles away. My Bangalore spinach, though sometimes (ok, always) still carried with it the dirt from which it was plucked, was local. (Of course, the travel time to the market could be the same, all things - like paved roads and trucks - considered.) So which is better?

I also can't say which is better - having to choose from endless varieties of laundry detergent or just choosing between liquid and powder. There are about 15 different varieties of Tide alone, nevermind Clorox, All, Surf and all the other competitors. Do we really need to choose between "Mountain Clean" and "Spring Fresh"? But that's what this country seems to be about, the "new and improved." Everything seems to be striving to be new and/or improved: new combinations of flakes and clusters in any given cereal, new and improved flavor in your favorite chip, more chunks of cookies in your ice cream. But I suppose this is "development" and not to worry, the "developing world" is learning. The grocery shelves in India are expanding, even as I type ,with more products, more variety, bigger portions and shinier packaging. But as I said earlier, while I am much more conscious of the variety, I'm not opposed to having options. I guess I just worry that "new and improved" is being confused with "better." Is better always equal to "more"? Is my ice cream better because there are more cookies in it?

I don't know why it is exactly but I'm much more aware of being a consumer here. Is it just because there is more to choose from? Or maybe it's because in the month leading up to our departure, the lead news stories were about the food crisis and impending world food shortages. Since coming home, I have heard about a rise in gas prices and sending food and aid to Myanmar and China but nothing about a "food crisis." We'll complain about the prices of milk going up, but does that really make the majority of the population think twice before adding more milk to their lattes? The majority of overweight Americans simply can afford to pay more for their food while the leading producers of food (India and China) are left literally starving to feed us. So perhaps it just feels a bit glutenous consuming anything I could possibly want and not producing anything more than the carbon dioxide I am breathing. But just because I'm conscious of it, doesn't make me any less guilty of over-consumption. More ice cream please.

Is Anyone Still Out There?

After a surprise stop in Paris, we are home again. And being home is definitely strange. Not a good strange or a bad strange...just strange. In some ways it feels like we never left but in other ways it feels very unfamiliar. But more on that later. First, there was Paris.

When we first flew to Bangalore, through Paris, we talked about staying over in Paris for a few days on one of our trips back to the US. December didn't seem like the right time because we were excited to get back home and in January, George needed to get back to India for work. When we got word we were coming back to the US, again it seemed as though our tour of Paris would include only a ride on the tram to take us from one terminal to another at Charles de Gaulle airport. George has always insisted that he was not a big fan of the French and the Paris is just an overrated European city, whenever I would talk about either France or Paris (even before this year). He made it clear that it was one place that was not high on his list of places to see. So when he said he would be needing to get back to the New York IBM office ASAP and there was no time for Paris, I didn't push it. I had just had an exotic Indian vacation, I couldn't really ask for more. With the dollar tanking and fuel costs rising, I knew that it would be an expensive stop over anyway. I was prepared to return to New York on Wednesday.

After staying strong and holding back tears when we said goodbye to Chandan, we had drinks and a late dinner at the Leela Palace where Air France has a lounge for the "elite" class travelers. We finally got to the Bangalore International Airport, which in light of the new international airport (which may or may not open in a few weeks), really appears to be on life support. It’s almost like you can hear it panting it’s last breath as you stand (the seats are too dirty to sit) waiting for the plastic sign that reads “Air France” on one side and “Lufthansa” on the other to face out to the crowd announcing the boarding of your flight. The place is so choked with people and not only have they rejected any sort of face lift, it’s like they are just hoping the old thing remains standing for just a few more weeks. There was more serious talk about keeping both airports open but I really think they just need to pull the plug on the old airport.

Anyway, when the plastic-looking Air France woman said, “ok, so your final destination is Paris?” I quickly panicked and said, “no, New York” but I was sort of behind George and she didn’t really hear me which made me panic even more. “George, she said Paris is our final stop. You better tell her New York!” He gave me the look like, yeah, yeah, I’ve got this under control so I held back. I was more paranoid about our luggage being over the weight limit anyway so I focused on the luggage. But then I noticed that our tags said “CDG – Charles De Gaulle, Paris,” instead of “JFK – New York.” To George I say, “shouldn’t those luggage tags say JFK?” Again, he gave me that look like I am the one who is crazy. So I let it go. But the more I thought about, the more I knew I was right. “George, I really think our bags are going to end up in Paris and we’ll be in New York.” At no point, was I even thinking that we might be stopping in Paris. I really just chalked it up to India’s Last Laugh – you blogged about our incompetence, we’ll show you. George, who can be very convincing when he wants to be assured me that this is just how “they” do it. “They change the tags in Paris to say JFK. Remember? This is how they did it over Christmas.” He said it with such authority that I began to wonder why I hadn’t noticed. Maybe at this point, there was a tiny part of me that thought, “wouldn’t it be fun if we were going to Paris…” So while we waited at immigration, I casually asked if we did make a stop in Paris, would we have to pay for the flight from Paris to New York or would IBM still cover it. I was told it would have to come out of our pockets and he gave me a “sorry to disappoint you” look that for me, only confirmed what I knew. We were on our way to New York.

It wasn’t until we took our seats that George handed me our itinerary with his own look of panic, saying “I think they made a mistake. Look at this.” I saw that we were not leaving Paris until Saturday. “Guess we’ll have to stay in Paris for three days,” he said, handing me the guidebook he bought as well as print outs from the internet of places to go in Paris. Sir is good at surprises but this was enough to bring me to tears.

We spent three relaxing days strolling down the Champs Elysee, walking arm and arm along the Seine and people watching in sidewalk cafes. The weather was gorgeous, the trees were budding and everywhere it looked like Spring. Even George, who was convinced that he probably wouldn’t really like Paris all that much, fell in love with the place. How could you not? Our hotel was right around the corner from the Arc de Triomphe giving us the perfect base for seeing all the sites without feeling too rushed.

I thought it would be a great idea to see the Eiffel Tower at sunset so we’d have the chance to see it during the day and lit up at night but neglected to check the sunset which wasn’t until about 10 pm. We got there around 6:30 and waited and waited and waited but by 8:30, the sun was still hanging pretty high and we were late for our dinner reservations.

I got to brush up on some of my French and George learned what all the fuss about fois gras is but I think the most important lesson we learned was, if you only have a couple of days in a place with lots to see, learn to travel like the Japanese. I’m not sure they are the best travelers but strictly based on the ratio of amount of hours you have to the amount of sites to see, they are certainly the most efficient – and they have the pictures to prove it (actually, we do too). Armed with their expensive digital cameras, I’m pretty sure they leave at sunrise and go to any parks or open spaces without an opening time and take some photos. In a group of about 20 or more, they then run, sometimes literally, to the first stop following someone holding an umbrella or map. They sometimes have buses but I think in cities, they feel this slows them down too much. When they get to famous landmark, they spend most of their time there posing for individual pictures in front of that landmark. First one of them goes and stands at the foot of the Arc de Triomphe, then they hop out and someone else hops in until all 20+ of them have the same exact picture of themselves. The best is at the art museums. The most famous paintings and sculptures at the Louvre are very well marked. The place is massive so the large posters with the picture of the Venus de Milo with the arrows pointing you in the right direction, are a big help. Once you reach the naked marble lady without any arms though, you are lucky to get a picture because the Japanese have beat you to her and have taken up real estate right in front of the statue. In order to get your picture of the statue, you either have to be very fast with your shot, or you have to accept that you will have to Photoshop out the Japanese tourists who had to have their pictures with the ancient statue (the same is true of the Mona Lisa). But, like taking pictures in a Cathedral, there just seems to be something wrong about snapping away at a masterpiece created centuries ago.

So if you weren’t convinced before, hopefully you’ll agree now that the Best Husband of 2008 award goes to Sir George Avery (and it’s only May).

But now we’re back and readjusting to life in the US of A again. Everything is so big and new and seems like such a waste. There is a new Lowe's just a few miles down the road from the old Lowe's which is just a few miles down the road from the Home Depot. Everything that's gone out of business (like the only non-chain restaurants in town) seem to be being replaced by a CVS, Walgreen's or Rite Aid. Every advertisement on the TV is about making me thinner and healthier, my life “easier” or me and my family richer. The other day, there was a man trying to sell me what was essentially a long, narrow piece of plywood that teetered on a bar in the center of the board. You strap yourself in and then hang upside down. I forget if this is designed to make you loose weight or help your back but I was guaranteed it would do both or my money back. And I thought Indian TV was bad…Oh, and I don’t actually have to go to any store to make these things happen, I just have to call an 800 number and have my credit card ready. And if I am having a problem with my credit card, there is no need to worry, some bank or credit card company will send me something in the mail to help reduce my debt or help me buy things I don’t need.

I got my fill of bad television the first Monday back as I was stricken with some stomach bug. I think it was all the clean water and lack of germs. Or maybe just this frigid sixty degree weather. You can take the girl out of India…

Thank You Bangalore

So while we might have been here literally "bawling" in Bangalore since we found out we have to go, on this our last afternoon here, a few good reasons to be coming home have recently presented themselves.

1. Bugs. Now that the summer sun is beating down on Bangalore, the bugs seem to be coming out to enjoy the rays more than say a few months ago. The little bugs we had in the kitchen when we first moved in are back. This is strange because like when we moved in, there isn't much food around these days but they seem to be swarming around the sink. Good riddance.

2. Efficiency and modern technology. We spent a good 2 hours at DHL on Saturday trying to ship three boxes. There were 2 employees who were eager enough to help us bring the boxes from the car into the store but their pace slowed from there. One of the guys clearly took the lead and said that they would need to go through each box before taping them up and getting them ready for shipping. Fine. So the guy not in charge takes a seat in the gallery (the corner of store where there is a chair and a couch and the other guy starts taking everything out of our first box, one by one. Once everything was out of the box, he began the procedure of putting everything back in the box but not before he grabbed a piece of blank paper and a pen and began writing each of the contents down. The first box had quite a few books. He started flipping through each book and at our first guide book he stops. "No maps."
"No maps?"
"Yes, there is map here. We cannot ship."
"You can't ship a book with a map?"
"No. Company policy."
"Why?"
"No maps."
"Why no maps?"
"No maps."
After seeing that the majority of our books were guidebooks and we tried the "they're not maps of India" (even though some clearly were), he gave up and just repacked our books for us. He was puzzled by our moisturizers and beauty products. "These are soaps?" If soaps are allowed, then sure, they're soaps. Surprisingly, the maps were really the only things that he gave us a hard time about but you'd be surprise how slowly someone can unpack and repack a box. He was very meticulous about correctly documenting the contents of each box.

Then they needed to be weighed. The run down scale in the dingy closet crammed with who knows what kept flashing an "error" message. After some unplugging and replugging and a few hits to the bottom, it was working. One of the boxes was something like 17 kilos but in a 25 kilo box. Despite being told that we pay by the kilo, he insisted that we move everything from the 25 kilo box to the 20 kilo box because the price would be cheaper. Would it weigh the same amount? Absolutely. Do they charge by the weight and not the size? Absolutely. Does it make sense then that the same contents in a smaller box would be cheaper? Absolutely not. But it did so thus began another round of taking the contents out of the box and putting them into a different box.

Then it was time for billing. Despite the computer behind the desk, the guy went for the book with the carbon papers and began hand writing shipping slips for each of the three boxes - each coming from the same address and going to the same address but requiring a new slip each time. His third grade teacher would be very proud because he had the neatest penmanship - like a third grader who has just learned to create the perfect letters if he goes slowly enough.

The whole time, the second guy was kind of hovering but really added nothing to any of the entire transaction. He did help mat down the tape when the first guy tapped up the boxes but that about it.

And lucky me, I got to go back and experience it all over again today when we realized we had enough for two more boxes. This time I dealt with a girl who was just as slow but not quite as meticulous as the guy. I thought I was going to get away easy. Then she started opening a travel kit. I thought for sure she would say no to the razors but no, razors were fine. It was the band-aids she could not allow. Why not? "Prescription ma'am."
"But I didn't have a prescription to purchase."
"You can't ship unless you have a prescription."
"But there is no prescription. They are bandages."
"You have a copy of the prescription?"
"No, there never was a prescription."
That go-round ended with me just taking the band-aids back.

An hour and half it took today for two boxes. Oh and almost as expensive as the three we shipped on Sat. because sometime between Sunday and Tuesday, they raised the tariffs. And this time it didn't matter that I had 13 kilos of goods in the 25 kilo box. I was trying to get to the bottom of all this when the guy from Saturday walked in. He verified that the prices had gone up and it didn't matter about which box my stuff was in. I'm still confused by it all but it's things like this, I will not miss.

We are on our way shortly, trying to dry our big crocodile tears. I refuse to really say goodbye to Bangalore because I hope that we are taking alot of what we've seen and learned with us. But I will say thanks for sharing this part of our journey with us. Namaste.

The Final Countdown...

It's hard to believe we are down to two days but here we are - surrounded by boxes and suitcases and piles of stuff. It seems that trying not to accumulate too much stuff is alot like trying to swim without getting wet. Good thing we have Danala the girl maid. She's not afraid to pick up the things we are leaving behind. It started with the pressure cooker but she's obviously had her eye on other items as well because as things have been disappearing into boxes and suitcases, she has been quick to point to the remaining things assuring me that she could take them off my hands. First it was the cutlery, then she turned her eyes to big ticket items like the TV and DVD player. Unfortunately, I told her, those are not ours to give. But she seems to have made out alright with a pan, some food and some clothes. When I had a pile of old t-shirts and other clothes I was going to donate, she started going through the pile. She would hold up a t-shirt and says, "child dress, no?" Soon there will be some little Indian kids running around in old t-shirts from the Broad Street Run 2005 and the New Haven 30k Labor Day race. One long sleeve shirt she declared was blanket. "I take blanket?"

We still haven't found some nice foreigners for Chandan to drive around which breaks my heart a little as he is the best Indian in the whole country. I'm sure of it. If only he would come to the US...

The maid boy, well, he and I never did have much of a relationship. It seems strange to give a teenage boy pots and pans and a rug - even if he is older than I assume. Instead, I gave him some extra rupees and struggled for one last time with what he was trying to tell me. I think he was saying, "Check-out, 7:30 pm." But when I asked, "today?" He just gave me a blank head bob and repeated, "check out, 7:30 pm." So I told him tomorrow and he shook his head yes and left. I'm still not sure what any of this means but we plan to be "checked out" by tomorrow night anyway.

I did not tip the water boy. He is relatively new on the scene and truly can't be more than 14. The water jug is about half his size and it surprises me every time he is actually able to lift it up onto the cooler. This is all he does. He comes in. He takes the plastic cap off the jug and throws it where ever he pleases, dumps the jug on top of the cooler and leaves, leaving the plastic cap to float in the wake of the water that he's spilled on the floor. No tip for him (even though he is a cute kid).

So we've said most of our goodbyes. I have lunch tomorrow with some friends but then it's back to the land of big SUVs, clean streets and apple pie. Good bye cows, curries and rickshaws. Now that it is so close, I think we both just want to get on the plane. I've got to take advantage of what could be my last trip in business class. I plan to drink all the champagne they offer me and raid the bathroom of all the expensive toiletries they provide.

Then we'll just be two more mouths contributing to the overconsumption of food in the US, adding to the world food crisis. The Indian papers were not happy to report the President Bush and other evil leaders in the West were blaming the food shortages on India and China. The argument being that due to the increase in wealth and middle class in India and China, more families are eating better and increasing consumption. But the tone in the papers here seemed rather defensive claiming that the US (and to a lesser degree the EU) almost triple Indian consumption of all foods - grains, meat, dairy, oils. They devoted two whole pages to defending there relatively minor increases in food consumption and blaming the US for overeating and wasting food. There was a very small article, buried in the middle of the paper, written by an Indian defending President Bush's remarks saying that he was only citing the growth in India and China as a contributing factor, among many others factors that have essentially creating a "perfect storm" of food shortage. Whatever the reason, it's just one more thing to keep me awake at night...gas at $4.19/gallon, global warming, food shortages, deadly cyclones, Chandan without a Sir and Ma'am...

I will not declare a final post. I'll be living at my parent's house with my husband in my childhood bedroom, if that's not fodder for a blog...I'll have to change the name though. Going Mad in Milford? Merrymaking in Milford? Fun with the Folks? Insane with the In-Laws? The Summer of "Serenity Now"? The possibilities are endless.

More on Malaysia

Despite the storm that blew in the last night of our stay at Redang beach, we still managed to scam our way into one last snorkeling trip. We think we were technically supposed to pay for each boat ride out since we weren't staying at the resort organizing the trips (we think the snorkeling was part of a package deal at the hotel because no one else was buying tickets). So we just kept our gear from day to day and tried to blend in (as well as two Caucasians in a small, remote Asian island can) with the crowd that gathered to get on the boat. Juliana decided to sit the last day out because the seas were looking a little rough due to the storm and while it had stopped raining every indication in the sky was that it would soon rain again. Still if the boat was willing to make the trek, I was too.

As the only two, non-Malaysian speaking guests, we just followed the crowd as they began walking, life jackets on, to the opposite side of the island. There, at another dock, our boat was waiting. We set off and not 2 minutes after setting sail, we encountered some vicious waves to which the Asians would yell, "WOAH" in unison. We took a very rocky 30 minute ride out and when we finally reached the reef where we were snorkeling, a small fire broke out in the boat next to ours. Our group went in two boats. We of course could not make out a word of what was happening but had to assume it was "under control" when everyone crowded to the front of the boat (the fire was in back) instead of jumping right out into the water. The crew, which was made up of a group of twenty something surfer types, was all smiles and laughs during the episode and used the fire extinguishers to put out the flames. No need to let a small engine fire spoil the fun. We snorkel for about an hour before the rain got too bad and we were really stuck at sea in a terrible storm. We all squeezed on one boat on the way back and battled higher waves and driving rain. Needless to say, Juliana was on the beach nervously waiting our return and fearing we'd tipped over and would never be seen again.

That night we went to our not so helpful reception desk to buy tickets on the ferry back to the main island. Juliana did the talking but when we heard her voice raise and her eyes looking incredulous, we knew something was up. The receptionist said that the ferry would not come if the weather continued to be bad. Everyone on the mainland wanting to get to the island would have to wait an extra day and everyone on the island would have to book an additional nights stay. Finding this somewhat hard to believe, we went to our pretend hotel reception desk where the woman kindly sold us tickets for the next day. She looked confused when we asked if the boat would actually be coming - like, "of course it would you silly foreigners."

And it did. The next day we headed back to the main land to catch our flight back to KL. We stopped for lunch in town but didn't see much action as it was Friday afternoon in a predominantly Muslim city. When we arrived back in KL Peter Lye was again waiting for us and happily took us back home to wash up and go out to another stall for dinner. This time, however, we went to a place that served Indian food like the classic, Roti Chennai (which actually is not found in India and was spelled a different way every time I saw it listed on a menu - Cheni, Chani, Channi, etc.) In India, you can get roti, a type of flat bread but there is no variety called roti Chennai. We had a variety of breads and sauces and again, just to round out the meal, some fish (balls or heads, I forget which).

The next day we had planned to head out to Ipoh (Juliana's native place) with Uncle Raymond and his wife but plans change quickly and often when you are with the Lye's so the trip to Ipoh was canceled about an hour before we were to head out. Instead, we saw Peter Lye's kampong (the neighborhood where he grew up) and did some laundry. While we were waiting for the laundry, we went to a large Buddhist temple that had Buddha statues from all over the world that was pretty neat to see. They each had subtle and not-so-subtle differences that bore striking resemblances to the cultures from which they came (I thought). The best example was the Indian one, painted in bright colors. You just look at them and think, "oh yeah, that looks like a Japanese Buddha, that looks like a Thai Buddha, etc." Steve showed me where he and Juliana used to live which was just a few blocks down from the dirty hotels of KL. We went in search of the sugarcane juice guy but he was not there so instead we had some coconut and lime juice that was served to us in a sandwich sized Ziplock bag.

After laundry, where I learned about the royal family who was looking down at us from stiff looking pictures on the wall, Peter Lye chauffeured us around KL showing us all the major tourist attractions. We went to the enormous government buildings and the national mosque where we were refused entry because it was closed for afternoon prayer. All of the government buildings have a strong Islamic influence. The architecture is very Moorish with round domes and 8 pointed stars adorning all doors, windows and walls. Peter Lye was very excited that they let us through the gates of the Parliament building to take a picture. "I've never been able to get this close. Never before. This is really something special." He had the ability to make me think that everything we were seeing was spectacular in some way. I fear he also felt that in order for me to really enjoy my time in Malaysia, I had to be doing something exciting every moment of the day. He seemed a little worried when it was three o'clock and we were back at the apartment with nothing to do until dinner with Uncle Raymond.

Not to worry though, when you are at a loss of something to do with the Lye's, you play cards. And not just your friendly game of gold fish. You play Rummy - for money. (Ideally, you play Majong but when not everyone knows how to play, they settle for Rummy.) Juliana's mother could hardly contain her excitement when she finally got to open her new Majong/Rummy set and break in her new Majong table. When you decide to play cards with the Lye's and there will be gambling, you do not forget to call Aunt Alice. But 5 pm, I had lost about 5 ringit but was completely caught up in fun. Aunt Alice is all of 3 feet and maybe 10 inches but what she lacks in height, she makes up for in punch. She is serious about her cards and no one can accuse her of being subtle. Case in point, "Steve, what's happened to your hair? You're going bald." I'm told she was on her best behavior with me around though.

After finally winning a game, it was time for dinner. (Because the trip to Ipoh was canceled, Uncle Raymond and Aunt Mei Ling offered to take us to dinner on Saturday and a town called Malaka on Sunday.) We met them in a hip and trendy section of town and was told before we arrived that Raymond and Mei Ling are yuppies. Much like Singapore, KL has more than enough malls but they still continue to attract thousands. We had dinner at a Chinese restaurant in the mall and again, I politely watched as others ordered and am sure I heard, "she doesn't take meat! What? Who doesn't eat meat? Pork doesn't count does it?" None of this was in English but still, it's amazing how much you can get without really knowing what is said. They of course, did not let me pay for any of the dinner but as if that wasn't enough, after dinner we walked around a night market where they bought me a hair clip that somehow just ended up in my hair and suddenly was mine. "Here, you have long hair, try this...oh, it's gorgeous. You've got to take it." They also bought me a bag. When I tried to pay for that I was told, "not in my country. You are our guest." We finished the evening at the Kopitiam (coffee shop) where again the status of Steve's hair follicles was discussed and Mei Ling shared "true life" ghost stories. She was very up front that when we were in Malaka, she would not buy any antiques because she gets strange feelings from the spirits of the previous owners (of whatever antique they are selling).

Sunday morning, after a hardy breakfast of fishball soup, made by Uncle John and his not so friendly wife (there is some drama there that I didn't quite get), we headed out to Malaka. Steve, Juliana, her parents, Uncle Raymond and Aunt Mei Ling. The ride took about an hour and a half and along the way, Peter Lye made sure to pull over so we could see the rubber trees and explain how the rubber is extracted from the trees (basically the same concept as maple syrup). Malaka was founded by the Portuguese and is on the west coast of Malaysia along the straights of Malaka. We walked around the narrow streets and into a few shops (but left when we got bad feelings from the spirits). Steve and I went up to the site of an old church founded by Saint Francis Xavier. It was at the highest point in the city. Then, it was time to eat...again.

Malaka food is apparently "very different" from the other Malaysian food we had. I did like the dishes more but I'm not sure I could really tell the difference. But the friendly gentleman who owned the place gave his personal recommendations and regaled us with tales of his all meat and cigarette diet. He said he was 71 but looked like he was in his early 60s which prompted the conversation. He really loves lamb fat which he swears is what has kept him fit and trim and feeling young. (Oh, except for that minor heart attack he suffered a few years ago.) I did try cooked bitter gourd which tasted much better than the juice from the same vegetable I had my first few days here that I still remember because of the horrible taste.

The next two days, I saw more of KL: the most photographed and well known symbol of the city, the twin towers, the KL tower, the financial district and the Batu caves which were a little further outside the city. Oh, and Monday night after much discussion because of the drizzle, we drove out to a firefly park. We drove about an hour outside the city to this river where we had dinner overlooking the river and then headed out on a small boat to see Fireflies. The rain had stopped so the flies were blinking. It looked like millions of camera flashes going off or just rows and rows of twinkle lights out in the wild. It really was quite something. (When they said we were going to see fireflies, I thought "how spectacular can it really be?" But it was very cool. Unfortunately, pictures didn't come out.)

Before heading out to the airport, I had my last Malaysian supper was with Aunt Alice and Uncle Chin who does not eat chicken because they are "dirty animals," but couldn't understand why I don't take beef. But again, they were very hospitable and seemed genuinely happy to have me. They was great discussion about when we should leave for the airport and what route we should take because of the traffic. Peter Lye hates traffic and will avoid it at all costs, even if that means taking the road less traveled. Not that I can complain. We made it in plenty of time and after they bid me farewell, I waited in the check-in line with all the other Indians. One airport employee walked over to me to verify I was in the right line. "Um, Miss, where are you going?" They checked with me again when I got to the gate and again was surrounded by all other Indians. "Miss, where are you headed?"

I made back safe and sound to my buddy Chandan who told me he was worried because a big storm had blown through Bangalore. He wasn't sure my flight would make it. There were multiple power lines down and lots of trees and branches. Very unusual as it is pre-Monsoon.

So that was Malaysia. More on our last few days in India to come...

I'm posting more pics but they will take awhile to upload. Check back later.